M 


KNEBWORTH   LIMITED   EDITION 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING 


BY 

EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON 

(LORD   LYTTON) 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 
ESTHS     AND     1   AURIAT 

1891 


KNEBWORTH   LIMITED    EDITION. 

Limited  to  One  Thousand  Copies 

No,.5.95 


^^C/ttJ-^^^^^^tJiO^  ^.cZ^ 


TYPOGRAPHY,  ELECTROTYPING,  AND 
PRINTING  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON, 
UNirERS/TY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


RIGHT   HONOURABLE   C.  T.  D'EYNCOURT,  M.P. 
THIS   IVORK, 

IN   PART  COMPOSED   UNDER  HIS   HOSPITABLE   ROOF, 

lis   ©etifcatcTJ, 

AS    A     SLIGHT     MEMORIAL    OF    AFFECTIONATE     FRIENDSHIP 
AND    SINCERE    ESTEEM. 

Knebworth,  1845. 


ivi59;5825 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1845. 


Much  has  been  written  by  critics,  especially  by  those  in 
Germany,  the  native  land  of  criticism,  upon  the  important 
question  whether  to  please  or  to  instruct  should  be  the  end 
of  Fiction ;  whether  a  moral  purpose  is  or  is  not  in  har- 
mony with  the  undidactic  spirit  perceptible  in  the  higher 
works  of  the  imagination.  And  the  general  result  of  the 
discussion  has  been  in  favour  of  those  who  have  contended 
that  Moral  Design,  rigidly  so  called,  should  be  excluded 
from  the  aims  of  the  Poet ;  that  his  Art  should  regard  only 
the  Beautiful,  and  be  contented  with  the  indirect  moral 
tendencies,  which  can  never  fail  the  creation  of  the  Beauti- 
ful. Certainly,  in  fiction,  to  interest,  to  please,  and  spor- 
tively to  elevate, — to  take  man  from  the  low  passions  and 
the  miserable  troubles  of  life  into  a  higher  region  ;  to 
beguile  weary  and  selfish  pain ;  to  excite  a  genuine  sorrow 
at  vicissitudes  not  his  own  ;  to  raise  the  passions  into  sym- 
pathy with  heroic  struggles,  —  and  to  admit  the  soul  into 
that  serener  atmosphere  from  which  it  rarely  returns  to 
ordinary  existence  without  some  memory  or  association 
which  ought  to  enlarge  the  domain  of  thought  and  exalt 
the  motives  of  action,  —  such,  without  other  moral  result 
or  object,  may  satisfy  the  Poet,^  and  constitute  the  highest 
and  most  universal  morality  he  can  effect.  But  subordi- 
nate to  this,  which  is  not  the  duty  but  the  necessity  of  all 

1  I  use  the  word  "  poet"  in  its  proper  sense,  as  applicable  to  any  writer, 
whether  in  verse  or  prose,  who  invents  or  creates. 


viu  PREFACE. 

Fiction  that  outlasts  the  hour,  the  writer  of  imagination 
may  well  permit  to  himself  other  purposes  and  objects,  tak- 
ing care  that  they  be  not  too  sharply  defined,  and  too 
obviously  meant  to  contract  the  Poet  into  the  Lecturer,  the 
Fiction  into  the  Homily.  The  delight  in  Shylock  is  not 
less  vivid  for  the  Humanity  it  latently  but  profoundly  in- 
culcates ;  the  healthful  merriment  of  the  "  Tartuffe "  is 
not  less  enjoyed  for  the  exposure  of  the  Hypocrisy  it 
denounces.  We  need  not  demand  from  Shakspeare  or 
from  Moliere  other  morality  than  that  which  Genius  un- 
consciously throws  around  it,  —  the  natural  light  which  it 
reflects  ;  but  if  some  great  principle  which  guides  us  practi- 
cally in  the  daily  intercourse  with  men  becomes  in  the 
general  lustre  more  clear  and  more  pronounced,  we  gain 
doubly,  —  by  the  general  tendency  and  the  particular 
result. 

Long  since,  in  searching  for  new  regions  in  the  Art  to 
which  I  am  a  servant,  it  seemed  to  me  that  they  might  be 
found  lying  far,  and  rarely  trodden,  beyond  that  range  of 
conventional  morality  in  which  Novelist  after  Novelist  had 
entrenched  himself,  amongst  those  subtle  recesses  in  the 
ethics  of  human  life  in  which  Truth  and  Falsehood  dwell 
undisturbed  and  unseparated.  The  vast  and  dark  Poetry 
around  us,  the  Poetry  of  Modern  Civilization  and  Daily 
Existence,  is  shut  out  from  us  in  much  by  the  shadowy 
giants  of  Prejudice  and  Fear.  He  who  would  arrive  at  the 
Fairy  Land  must  face  the  Phantoms.  Betimes,  I  set  my- 
self to  the  task  of  investigating  the  motley  world  to  which 
our  progress  in  humanity  has  attained,  caring  little  what 
misrepresentation  I  incurred,  what  hostility  I  provoked,  in 
searching  through  a  devious  labyrinth  for  the  foot-tracks 
of  Truth. 

In  the  pursuit  of  this  object,  I  am,  not  vainly,  conscious 
that  I  have  had  my  influence  on  my  time ;  that  I  have 


PREFACE.  ix 

contributed,  though  humbly  and  indirectly,  to  the  benefits 
which  Public  Opinion  has  extorted  from  Governments  and 
Laws.  While  (to  content  myself  with  a  single  example) 
the  ignorant  or  malicious  were  decrying  the  moral  of  "  Paul 
Clifford,"  I  consoled  myself  with  perceiving  that  its  truths 
had  stricken  deep,  —  that  many  whom  formal  essays  might 
not  reach  were  enlisted  by  the  picture  and  the  popular 
force  of  Fiction  into  the  service  of  that  large  and  Catho- 
lic Humanity  which  frankly  examines  into  the  causes  of 
crime  ;  which  ameliorates  the  ills  of  society  by  seeking  to 
amend  the  circumstances  by  which  they  are  occasioned,  and 
commences  the  great  work  of  justice  to  mankind  by  pro- 
portioning the  punishment  to  the  offence.  That  work,  I 
know,  had  its  share  in  the  wise  and  great  relaxation  of  our 
Criminal  Code  ;  it  has  had  its  share  in  results  yet  more  * 
valuable  because  leading  to  more  comprehensive  reforms, —  ' 
namely,  in  the  courageous  facing  of  the  ills  which  the  mock 
decorum  of  timidity  would  shun  to  contemplate,  but  which, 
till  fairly  fronted  in  the  spirit  of  practical  Christianity,  sap 
daily,  more  and  more,  the  walls  in  which  blind  Indolence 
would  protect  itself  from  restless  Misery  and  rampant 
Hunger.  For  it  is  not  till  Art  has  told  the  unthinking 
that  nothing,  rightly  treated^  is  too  low  for  its  breath  to 
vivify  and  its  wings  to  raise,  that  the  Herd  awaken  from 
their  chronic  lethargy  of  contempt,  and  the  Lawgiver  is 
compelled  to  redress  what  the  Poet  has  lifted  into  esteem. 
In  thus  enlarging  the  boundaries  of  the  Novelist  from  trite 
and  conventional  to  untrodden  ends,  I  have  seen,  not  with 
the  jealousy  of  an  Author  but  with  the  pride  of  an  Origi- 
nator, that  I  have  served  as  a  guide  to  later  and  abler 
writers,  both  in  England  and  abroad.  If  at  times,  while 
imitating,  they  have  mistaken  me,  I  am  not  answerable 
for  their  errors ;  or  if,  more  often,  they  have  improved 
where  they  borrowed,  I  am  not  envious  of  their  laurels. 


X  PREFACE. 

They  owe  mo  at  least  this,  —  that  I  prepared  the  way  for 
their  reception,  and  that  they  would  have  been  less  popular 
and  more  misrepresented,  if  the  outcry  which  bursts  upon 
the  first  researches  into  new  directions  had  not  exhausted 
its  noisy  vehemence  upon  me. 

In  this  Novel  of  "  Night  and  Morning  "  I  have  had  vari- 
ous ends  in  view,  —  subordinate,  I  grant,  to  the  higher  and 
more  durable  morality  which  belongs  to  the  Ideal,  and  in- 
structs us  playfully  while  it  interests  in  the  passions  and 
through  the  heart.  First,  to  deal  fearlessly  with  that  uni- 
versal unsoundness  in  social  justice  which  makes  distinc- 
tions so  marked  and  iniquitous  between  Vice  and  Crime,  — 
namely,  between  the  corrupting  habits  and  the  violent  act ;  | 
which  scarce  touches  the  former  with  the  lightest  twig  in 
the  fasces ;  which  lifts  against  the  latter  the  edge  of  the 
Lictor's  axe.  Let  a  child  steal  an  apple  in  sport,  let  a 
starveling  steal  a  roll  in  despair,  and  Law  conducts  them 
to  the  Prison,  for  evil  commune  to  mellow  them  for  the 
gibbet.  But  let  a  man  spend  one  apprenticeship  from 
youth  to  old  age  in  vice,  let  him  devote  a  fortune,  perhaps 
colossal,  to  the  wholesale  demoralization  of  his  kind,  and 
he  may  be  surrounded  with  the  adulation  of  the  so-called 
virtuous,  and  be  served  upon  its  knee  by  that  Lackey,  the 
Modern  World !  I  say  not  that  Law  can,  or  that  Law 
should,  reach  the  Vice  as  it  does  the  Crime  ;  but  I  say  that 
Opinion  may  be  more  than  the  servile  shadow  of  Law.  I 
impress  not  here,  as  in  "  Paul  Clifford,"  a  material  moral  to 
work  its  effect  on  the  Journals,  at  the  Hustings,  through 
Constituents,  and  on  Legislation  ;  I  direct  myself  to  a  chan- 
nel less  active,  more  tardy,  but  as  sure,  —  to  the  Conscience 
that  reigns,  elder  and  superior  to  all  Law,  in  men's  hearts 
and  souls.  I  utter  boldly  and  loudly  a  truth,  if  not  all 
untold,  murmured  feebly  and  falteringly  before ;  sooner  or 
later  it  will  find  its  way  into  the  judgment  and  the  conduct, 


PREFACE.  XI 

and  shape  out  a  tribunal  which  requires  not  robe  or 
ermine. 

Secondly,  in  this  work  I  have  sought  to  lift  the  mask 
from  the  timid  selfishness  which  too  often  with  us  bears 
the  name  of  "  Respectability."  Purposely  avoiding  all  at- 
traction that  may  savour  of  extravagance,  patiently  subdu- 
ing every  tone  and  every  hue  to  the  aspect  of  those  whom 
we  meet  daily  in  our  thoroughfares,  I  have  shown  in  Robert 
Beaufort  the  man  of  decorous  phrase  and  bloodless  action, 
the  systematic  self-server,  in  whom  the  world  forgive  the 
lack  of  all  that  is  generous,  warm,  and  noble  in  order  to 
respect  the  passive  acquiescence  in  methodical  conventions 
and  hollow  forms.  And  how  common  such  men  are  with 
us  in  this  century,  and  how  inviting  and  how  necessary 
their  delineation,  may  be  seen  in  this,  —  that  the  popular 
and  pre-eminent  Observer  of  the  age  in  which  we  live  has 
since  placed  their  prototype  in  vigorous  colours  upon 
imperishable  canvas.^ 

There  is  yet  another  object  with  which  I  have  identified 
my  tale.  I  trust  that  I  am  not  insensible  to  such  advan- 
tages as  arise  from  the  diffusion  of  education  really  sound 
and  knowledge  really  available  ;  for  these,  as  the  right  of 
my  countrymen,  I  have  contended  always.  But  of  late 
years  there  has  been  danger  that  what  ought  to  be  an 
important  truth  may  be  perverted  into  a  pestilent  fallacy. 
Whether  for  rich  or  for  poor,  disappointment  must  ever 
await  the  endeavour  to  give  knowledge  without  labour  and 
experience  without  trial.  Cheap  literature  and  popular 
treatises  do  not  in  themselves  suffice  to  fit  the  nerves  of 
man  for  the  strife  below,  and  lift  his  aspirations  in  health- 
ful confidence  above.  He  who  seeks  to  divorce  toil  from 
knowledge  deprives  knowledge  of  its  most  valuable  pro- 
perty, —  the  strengthening  of  the  mind  by  exercise.     We 

1  Need  I  sav  that  I  allude  to  the  recksniff  of  Mr.  Dickens  ? 


xii  PREFACE. 

learn  what  really  braces  and  elevates  us  only  in  proportion 
to  the  effort  it  costs  us.  Nor  is  it  in  Books  alone,  nor  in 
Books  chiefly,  that  we  are  made  conscious  of  our  strength 
as  Men  ;  Life  is  the  great  Schoolmaster,  Experience  the 
mighty  Volume.  He  who  has  made  one  stern  sacrifice  of 
self  has  acquired  more  than  he  will  ever  glean  from  the 
odds  and  ends  of  popular  philosophy  ;  and  the  man  the  least 
scholastic  may  be  more  robust  in  the  power  that  is  knowl- 
edge, and  approach  nearer  to  the  Arch-Seraphim,  than 
Bacon  himself,  if  he  cling  fast  to  two  simple  maxims,  — 
"  Be  honest  in  temptation,  and  in  Adversity  believe  in 
God."  Such  moral,  attempted  before  in  "  Eugene  Aram," 
I  have  enforced  more  directly  here  ;  and  out  of  such  con- 
victions 1  have  created  hero  and  heroine,  placing  them  in 
their  primitive  and  natural  characters  —  with  aid  more 
from  life  than  books  ;  from  courage  the  one,  from  affection 
the  other  —  amidst  the  feeble  Hermaphrodites  of  our  sickly 
civilization, —  examples  of  resolute  Manhood  and  tender 
Womanhood. 

The  opinions  I  have  here  put  forth  are  not  in  fashion  at 
this  day,  but  I  have  never  consulted  the  popular  any  more 
than  the  sectarian  Prejudice.  Alone  and  unaided  1  have 
hewn  out  my  way,  from  first  to  last,  by  the  force  of  my 
own  convictions.  The  corn  springs  up  in  the  field  centu- 
ries after  the  first  sower  is  forgotten.  Works  may  perish 
with  the  workman  ;  but,  if  truthful,  their  results  are  in  the 
works  of  others,  imitating,  borrowing,  enlarging,  and  im- 
proving, in  the  everlasting  Cycle  of  Industry  and  Thought. 

Knebworth,  1845. 


NOTE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION,   1851. 


I  HAVE  nothing  to  add  to  the  preceding  pages,  written 
six  years  ago,  as  to  the  objects  and  aims  of  this  work, 
except  to  say,  and  by  no  means  as  a  boast,  that  the  work 
lays  claims  to  one  kind  of  interest  which  I  certainly  never 
desired  to  effect  for  it,  —  namely,  in  exemplifying  the 
glorious  uncertainty  of  the  Law.  For,  humbly  aware  of 
the  blunders  which  Novelists  not  belonging  to  the  legal 
profession  are  apt  to  commit  when  they  summon  to  the 
denouement  of  a  plot  the  aid  of  a  deity  so  mysterious  as 
Themis,  I  submitted  to  an  eminent  lawyer  the  whole  case 
of  "  Beaufort  versus  Beaufort,"  as  it  stands  in  this  Novel ; 
and  the  pages  which  refer  to  that  suit  were  not  only  written 
from  the  opinion  annexed  to  the  brief  I  sent  in,  but  sub- 
mitted to  the  eye  of  my  counsel  and  revised  by  his  pen. 
(N.B.  He  was  feed.)  Judge  then  my  dismay  when  I 
heard  long  afterwards  that  the  late  Mr.  O'Connell  disputed 
the  soundness  of  the  law  I  had  thus  bought  and  paid  for  ! 
"  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  ?  "  All  I  can 
say  is,  that  I  took  the  best  opinion  that  love  or  money 
could  get  me ;  and  I  should  add,  that  my  lawyer,  unawed 
by  the  alleged  ipse  dixit  of  the  great  Agitator  (to  be  sure, 
he  is  dead),  still  stoutly  maintains,  his  own  views   of  the 


XIV  NOTE   TO   THE  PRESENT   EDITION,   1851. 

question.^  Let  me  hope  that  the  right  heir  will  live  long 
enough  to  come  mider  the  Statute  of  Limitations.  Posses- 
sion is  nine  points  of  the  law,  and  Time  may  give  the 
tenth. 

Knebwokth. 

>  I  have,  however,  thought  it  prudent  so  far  to  meet  the  objection  suggested 
by  Mr.  O'Connell  as  to  make  a  slight  alteration  in  this  edition,  which  will 
probably  prevent  the  objection,  if  correct,  being  of  any  material  practical 
effect  on  the  disposition  of  that  visionary  El  Dorado,  the  Beaufort  Property. 


LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 

"The  young  rider  darted  forward  and  cleared  the 

Qj^rjg » Frontispiece 

"  The  mother  with  a  tremulous  hand  drew  aside  the  white 

curtains" 82 

Morton's  sudden  Appearance  before  Eugenie  de  Merville  .  282 

"It  was  like  the  fairy  and  the  witch  together"  ....  431 


NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


BOOK    I. 


Ulocf)  in  meine§  2eben§  Cenje 

Wax  id)  unb  ic^  tnanbert'  au§, 
Unb  ber  Sugen^  fro^e  ^""^^ 

2k%  i^  in  be^  ^Qter§  §au§. 

Schiller,  Z)er  Pilgrim. 


INTRODUCTOEY  CHAPTER. 

Now  rests  our  vicar.     They  who  knew  him  best 
Proclaim  his  life  to  have  been  entirely  rest ; 
Nor  one  so  old  has  left  this  world  of  sin 
More  like  the  being  that  he  entered  in.  —  Crabbe. 

In  one  of  the  Welsh  counties  is  a  small  village  called 

A .     It  is  somewhat  removed  from  the  high  road,  and  is 

therefore  but  little  known  to  those  luxurious  amateurs  of  the 
picturesque  who  view  iSTature  through  the  windows  of  a  car- 
riage and  four.  ISTor,  indeed,  is  there  anything,  whether  of 
scenery  or  association,  in  the  place  itself  sufficient  to  allure 
the  more  sturdy  enthusiast  from  the  beaten  tracks  which  tour- 
ists and  guide-books  prescribe  to  those  who  search  the  Sub- 
lime and  Beautiful  amidst  the  mountain  homes  of  the  ancient 
Britons.  Still,  on  the  whole,  the  village  is  not  without  its 
attractions.  It  is  placed  in  a  small  valley,  through  which 
winds  and  leaps  down  many  a  rocky  fall  a  clear,  babbling, 
noisy  rivulet,  that  affords  excellent  sport  to  the  brethren  of 
the  angle.  Thither,  accordingly,  in  the  summer  season  occa- 
1 


2  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

sionally  resort  the  Waltons  of  the  neighbourhood, — young 
farmers,  retired  traders,  with  now  and  then  a  stray  artist, 
or  a  roving  student  from  one  of  the  Universities.     Hence  the 

solitary  hostelry  of  A ,  being  somewhat  more  frequented, 

is  also  more  clean  and  comfortable  than  could  reasonably  be  an- 
ticipated from  the  insignificance  and  remoteness  of  the  village. 
At  a  time  in  which  my  narrative  opens,  the  village  boasted 
a  sociable,  agreeable,  careless,  half-starved  parson,  who  never 
failed  to  introduce  himself  to  any  of  the  anglers  who  during 
the  summer  months  passed  a  day  or  two  in  the  little  valley. 
The  Eev.  Mr.  Caleb  Price  had  been  educated  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Cambridge,  where  he  had  contrived,  in  three  years,  to 
run  through  a  little  fortune  of  £3,500.     It  is  true  that  he 
acquired  in  return  the  art  of  making  milk-punch,  the  science 
of  pugilism,  and  the  reputation  of  one  of  the  best-natured, 
rattling,  open-hearted  companions  whom  you  could  desire  by 
your  side  in  a  tandem  to  Newmarket,  or  in  a  row  with  the 
bargemen.     By  the  help  of  these  gifts  and  accomplishments, 
he  had  not  failed  to  find  favour  while  his  money  lasted  with 
the  young  aristocracy  of  the  "Gentle  Mother;"  and  though 
the  very  reverse  of  an  ambitious  or  calculating  man,  he  had 
certainly  nourished  the  belief  that  some  one  of  the  "  hats  "  or 
"  tinsel  gowns  "  —  that  is,  young  lords  or  fellow-commoners, 
with  whom  he  was  on  such  excellent  terms  and  who  supped 
with  him  so  often  —  would  do  something  for  him  in  the  way 
of  a  living.     But  it  so  happened  that  when  ]\Ir.  Caleb  Price 
had,  with  a  little  difficulty,  scrambled  through  his  degree, 
and  found  himself  a  Bachelor  of  Arts  and  at  the  end  of  his 
finances,  his  grand  acquaintances  parted  from  him  to  their 
various   posts  in  the  State  Militant  of   Life;    and  with  the 
exception  of  one,  joyous  and  reckless  as  himself,  Mr.  Caleb 
Price  found  that  when  Money  makes  itself  wings,  it  flies  away 
with  our  friends.     As  poor  Price  had  earned  no  academical 
distinction,  so  he  could  expect  no  advancement  from  his  col- 
lege,—  no  fellowship,  no  tutorship  leading  hereafter  to  liv- 
ings, stalls,  and  deaneries.     Poverty  began  already  to  stare 
him  in  the  face,  when  the  only  friend  who,  having  shared  his 
prosperity,  remained  true  to  his  adverse  fate,  —  a  friend,  for- 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  3 

tunately  for  him,  of  high  connections  and  brilliant  prospects, 

—  succeeded  in  obtaining  for  him  the  humble  living  of  A . 

To  this  primitive  spot  the  once  jovial  roisterer  cheerfully 
retired;  contrived  to  live  contented  upon  an  income  somewhat 
less  than  he  had  formerly  given  to  his  groom;  preached  very 
short  sermons  to  a  very  scanty  and  ignorant  congregation, 
some  of  whom  only  understood  Welsh;  did  good  to  the  poor 
and  sick  in  his  own  careless,  slovenly  way;  and,  uncheered  or 
unvexed  by  wife  and  children,  he  rose  in  summer  with  the 
lark  and  in  winter  went  to  bed  at  nine  precisely,  to  save  coals 
and  candles.  For  the  rest,  he  was  the  most  skilful  angler  in 
the  whole  county ;  and  so  willing  to  communicate  the  results 
of  his  experience  as  to  the  most  taking  colour  of  the  flies  and 
the  most  favoured  haunts  of  the  trout,  that  he  had  given  espe- 
cial orders  at  the  inn  that  whenever  any  strange  gentleman 
came  to  fish,  Mr.  Caleb  Price  should  be  immediately  sent  for. 
In  this,  to  be  sure,  our  worthy  pastor  had  his  usual  recom- 
pense :  First,  if  the  stranger  were  tolerably  liberal,  Mr.  Price 
was  asked  to  dinner  at  the  inn;  and  secondly,  if  this  failed, 
from  the  poverty  or  the  churlishness  of  the  obliged  party,  Mr. 
Price  still  had  an  opportunity  to  hear  the  last  news,  to  talk 
about  the  Great  World,  —  in  a  word,  to  exchange  ideas,  and 
perhaps  to  get  an  old  newspaper,  or  an  odd  number  of  a 
magazine. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  one  afternoon  in  October,  when  the 
periodical  excursions  of  the  anglers,  becoming  gradually  rarer 
and  more  rare,  had  altogether  ceased,  Mr.  Caleb  Price  was 
summoned  from  his  parlour,  in  which  he  had  been  employed 
in  the  fabrication  of  a  net  for  his  cabbages,  by  a  little  white- 
headed  boy,  who  came  to  say  there  was  a  gentleman  at  the  inn 
who  wished  immediately  to  see  him,  —  a  strange  gentleman, 
who  had  never  been  there  before. 

Mr.  Price  threw  down  his  net,  seized  his  hat,  and  in  less 
than  five  minutes  he  was  in  the  best  room  of  the  little  inn. 

The  person  there  awaiting  him  was  a  man  who,  though 
plainly  clad  in  a  velveteen  shooting-jacket,  had  an  air  and 
mien  greatly  above  those  common  to  the  pedestrian  visitors  of 
A .     He  was  tall,  and  of  one  of  those  athletic  forms  in 


4  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

which  vigour  in  youth  is  too  often  followed  by  corpulence  in 
age.  At  this  period,  however,  in  the  full  prime  of  manhood, 
the  ample  chest  and  sinewy  limbs,  seen  to  full  advantage  in 
their  simple  and  manly  dress,  could  not  fail  to  excite  that 
popular  admiration  which  is  always  given  to  strength  in  the 
one  sex  as  to  delicacy  in  the  other.  The  stranger  was  walk- 
ing impatiently  to  and  fro  the  small  apartment  when  JNIr. 
Price  entered ;  and  then,  turning  to  the  clergyman  a  counte- 
nance handsome  and  striking,  but  yet  more  prepossessing 
from  its  expression  of  frankness  than  from  the  regularity  of 
its  features,  he  stopped  short,  held  out  his  hand,  and  said, 
with  a  gay  laugh,  as  he  glanced  over  the  parson's  threadbare 
and  slovenly  costume :  "  My  poor  Caleb,  what  a  metamorpho- 
sis !     I  should  not  have  known  you  again !  " 

"What!  you!  Is  it  possible,  my  dear  fellow?  How  glad 
I  am  to  see  you!  What  on  earth  can  bring  you  to  such  a 
place?  No;  not  a  soul  would  believe  me  if  I  said  I  had  seen 
you  in  this  miserable  hole." 

"  That  is  precisely  the  reason  why  I  am  here.  Sit  down, 
Caleb,  and  we  '11  talk  over  matters  as  soon  as  our  landlord  has 
brought  up  the  materials  for  —  " 

"The  milk-punch,"  interrupted  Mr.  Price,  rubbing  his 
hands. 

"  Ah,  that  will  bring  us  back  to  old  times,  indeed !  " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  punch  was  prepared,  and  after  two  or 
three  preparatory  glasses,  the  stranger  thus  commenced, — 

"  j\Iy  dear  Caleb,  I  am  in  want  of  your  assistance,  and  above 
all  of  your  secrecy." 

"I  promise  you  both  beforehand.  It  will  make  me  happy 
the  rest  of  my  life  to  think  I  have  served  my  patron,  my  ben- 
efactor, the  only  friend  I  possess." 

"  Tush,  man !  don't  talk  of  that :  we  shall  do  better  for  you 
one  of  these  days.  But  now  to  the  point:  I  have  come  here 
to  be  married;  married,  old  boy!  married!" 

And  the  stranger  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
chuckled  with  the  glee  of  a  schoolboy. 

"  Humph !  "  said  the  parson,  gravely.  "  It  is  a  serious 
thing  to  do,  and  a  very  odd  place  to  come  to." 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  6 

"I  admit  both  propositions:  this  punch  is  superb.  To 
proceed:  you  know  that  my  uncle's  immense  fortune  is  at 
his  own  disposal.  If  I  disobliged  him,  he  would  be  capable 
of  leaving  all  to  my  brother;  I  should  disoblige  him  irrevoca- 
bly if  he  knew  that  I  had  married  a  tradesman's  daughter;  I 
am  going  to  marry  a  tradesman's  daughter,  —  a  girl  in  a 
million!  The  ceremony  must  be  as  secret  as  possible;  and 
in  this  church,  with  you  for  the  priest,  I  do  not  see  a  chance 
of  discovery." 

"Do  you  marry  by  license?" 

"No;  my  intended  is  not  of  age,  and  we  keep  the  secret 
even  from  her  father.  In  this  village  you  will  mumble  over 
the  bans  without  one  of  your  congregation  ever  taking  heed 
of  the  name,  I  shall  stay  here  a  month  for  the  purpose.  She 
is  in  London,  on  a  visit  to  a  relation  in  the  city.  The  bans 
on  her  side  will  be  published  with  equal  privacy  in  a  little 
church  near  the  Tower,  where  my  name  will  be  no  less 
unknown  than  hers.     Oh,  I  've  contrived  it  famously !  " 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  consider  what  you  risk." 

"  I  have  considered  all,  and  I  find  every  chance  in  my  favour. 
The  bride  will  arrive  here  on  the  day  of  our  wedding :  my  ser- 
vant will  be  one  witness ;  some  stupid  old  Welshman,  as  ante- 
diluvian as  possible,  —  I  leave  it  to  you  to  select  him,  —  shall 
be  the  other.  My  servant  I  shall  dispose  of,  and  the  rest  I 
can  depend  on." 

<'But  — " 

"I  detest  buts:  if  I  had  to  make  a  language,  I  would  not 
admit  such  a  word  in  it.  And  now,  before  I  run  on  about 
Catherine,  a  subject  quite  inexhaustible,  tell  me,  my  dear 
friend,  something  about  yourself." 

Somewhat  more  than  a  month  had  elapsed  since  the  arrival 
of  the  stranger  at  the  village  inn.  He  had  changed  his  quar- 
ters for  the  Parsonage;  went  out  but  little,  and  then  chiefly 
on  foot  excursions  among  the  sequestered  hills  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. He  was  therefore  but  partially  known  by  sight, 
even  in  the  village ;  and  the  visit  of  some  old  college  friend 
to  the  minister,  though  indeed  it  had  never  chanced  before. 


6  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

was  not  in  itself  so  remarkable  an  event  as  to  excite  any  par- 
ticular observation.  The  bans  had  been  duly,  and  half  audi- 
bly, hurried  over,  after  the  service  was  concluded  and  while 
the  scanty  congregation  were  dispersing  down  the  little  aisle 
of  the  church,  —  when  one  morning  a  chaise  and  pair  arrived 
at  the  Parsonage.  A  servant  out  of  livery  leaped  from  the 
box.  The  stranger  opened  the  door  of  the  chaise,  and,  utter- 
ing a  joyous  exclamation,  gave  his  arm  to  a  lady,  who  trem- 
bling and  agitated  could  scarcely,  even  with  that  stalwart 
support,  descend  the  steps.  "Ah!"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  tears,  when  they  found  themselves  alone  in  the 
little  parlour,  —  *'  ah,  if  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered !  " 

How  is  it  that  certain  words,  and  those  the  homeliest, 
which  the  hand  writes  and  the  eye  reads  as  trite  and  com- 
monplace expressions,  when  sjyoken  convey  so  much,  —  so 
many  meanings  complicated  and  refined?  "Ah,  if  you  knew 
how  I  have  suffered !  " 

When  the  lover  heard  these  words,  his  gay  countenance  fell. 
He  drew  back ;  his  conscience  smote  him.  In  that  complaint 
was  the  whole  history  of  a  clandestine  love,  not  for  both  the 
parties,  but  for  the  woman,  —  the  painful  secrecy,  the  re- 
morseful deceit,  the  shame,  the  fear,  the  sacrifice.  She  who 
uttered  those  words  was  scarcely  sixteen.  It  is  an  early  age 
to  leave  Childhood  behind  forever! 

"My  own  love!  you  have  suffered,  indeed;  but  it  is  over 
now." 

"Over!  And  what  will  they  say  of  me,  what  will  they 
think  of  me  at  home  ?     Over !     Ah !  " 

"It  is  but  for  a  short  time.  In  the  course  of  nature  my 
uncle  cannot  live  long;  all  then  will  be  explained.  Our  mar- 
riage once  made  public,  all  connected  with  you  will  be  proud 
to  own  you.  You  will  have  wealth,  station,  a  name  among 
the  first  in  the  gentry  of  England;  but  above  all,  you  will 
have  the  happiness  to  think  that  your  forbearance  for  a  time 
has  saved  me,  and  it  may  be  our  children,  sweet  one !  —  from 
poverty  and  —  " 

"It  is  enough,"  interrupted  the  girl;  and  the  expression  of 
her  countenance  became  serene  and  elevated.     "  It  is  for  you, 


NIGHT  AXU  MORNING.  7 

for  your  saka.  I  know  what  you  hazard,  how  much  I  musl 
owe  you!  Forgive  me;  this  is  the  last  murmur  you  shall  ever 
hear  from  these  lips." 

An  hour  after  these  words  were  spoken,  the  marriage  cere- 
mony was  concluded. 

"Caleb,"  said  the  bridegroom,  drawing  the  clergyman  aside 
as  they  were  about  to  re-enter  the  house,  "you  will  keep  your 
promise,  I  know;  and  you  think  I  may  depend  implicitly  upon 
the  good  faith  of  the  witness  you  have  selected?" 

"Upon  his  good  faith?  —  no,"  said  Caleb,  smiling;  "but 
upon  his  deafness,  his  ignorance,  and  his  age.  My  poor  old 
clerk !  he  will  have  forgotten  all  about  it  before  this  day  three 
months.  Now  I  have  seen  your  lady,  I  no  longer  wonder  that 
you  incur  so  great  a  risk.  I  never  beheld  so  lovely  a  counte- 
nance. You  will  be  happy !  "  And  the  village  priest  sighed, 
and  thought  of  the  coming  winter  and  his  own  lonely  hearth. 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  have  only  seen  her  beauty ;  it  is  her 
least  charm.  Heaven  knows  how  often  I  have  made  love; 
and  this  is  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  really  loved.  Caleb, 
there  is  an  excell|nt  living  that  adjoins  my  uncle's  house. 
The  rector  is  old ;  when  the  house  is  mine,  you  will  not  be 
long  without  the  living.  We  shall  be  neighbours,  Caleb,  and 
then  you  shall  try  and  find  a  bride  for  yourself.      Smith," 

—  and  the  bridegroom  turned  to  the  servant  who  had 
accompanied  his  wife,  and  served  as  a  second  witness 
to  the  marriage,  — "  tell  the  post-boy  to  put  to  the  horses 
immediately." 

"Yes,  sir.     May  I  speak  a  word  with  you?" 

"Well,  what?" 

"  Your  uncle,  sir,  sent  for  me  to  come  to  him  the  day  before 
we  left  town," 

"Aha!  indeed! " 

"  And  I  could  just  pick  up  among  his  servants  that  he  had 
some  suspicion  —  at  least,  that  he  had  been  making  inquiries 

—  and  seemed  very  cross,  sir," 
"  You  went  to  him?  " 

"No,  sir,  I  was  afraid.  He  has  such  a  way  with  him; 
whenever  his  eye  is  fixed  on  mine,  I  always  feel  as  if  it  was 


8  NIGHT   AND  MORXIXG. 

impossible  to  tell  a  lie;  and  —  and  —  in  short,  I  thought  it 
was  best  not  to  go." 

"  You  did  right.  —  Confound  this  fellow !  "  muttered  the 
bridegroom,  turning  away;  "he  is  honest,  and  loves  me:  yet 
if  my  uncle  sees  him,  he  is  clumsy  enough  to  betray  all. 
"Well,  I  always  meant  to  get  him  out  of  the  way,  —  the  sooner 
the  better. —Smith!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  You  have  often  said  that  you  should  like,  if  you  had  some 
capital,  to  settle  in  Australia.  Your  father  is  an  excellent 
farmer ;  you  are  above  the  situation  you  hold  with  me ;  you 
are  well  educated,  and  have  some  knowledge  of  agriculture; 
you  can  scarcely  fail  to  make  a  fortune  as  a  settler;  and  if  you 
are  of  the  same  mind  still,  why,  look  you,  I  have  just  £1,000 
at  my  banker's :  you  shall  have  half,  if  you  like  to  sail  by  the 
first  packet." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  generous." 

"  Nonsense !  no  thanks.  I  am  more  prudent  than  generous, 
for  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  all  up  with  me  if  mv  uncle  gets 
hold  of  you.  I  dread  my  prying  brother,  too.  In  fact,  the 
obligation  is  on  my  side;  only  stay  abroad  till  I  am  a  rich 
man,  and  my  marriage  made  public,  and  then  you  may  ask  of 
me  what  you  will.  It 's  agreed,  then;  order  the  horses,  we  '11 
go  round  by  Liverpool,  and  learn  about  the  vessels.  By  the 
way,  my  good  fellow,  I  hope  you  see  nothing  now  of  that 
good-for-nothing  brother  of  yours?" 

"  No,  indeed,  sir.  It 's  a  thousand  pities  he  has  turned  out 
so  ill ;  for  he  was  the  cleverest  of  the  family,  and  could  always 
twist  me  round  his  little  finger." 

"  That,'s  the  very  reason  I  mentioned  him.  If  he  learned 
our  secret,  he  would  take  it  to  an  excellent  market.  ^Yhere 
is  he?" 

"Hiding,  I  suspect,  sir." 

"  Well,  we  shall  put  the  sea  between  you  and  him !  So  now 
all 's  safe." 

Caleb  stood  by  the  porch  of  his  house  as  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  entered  their  humble  vehicle.  Though  then 
November,  the  day  was  exquisitely  mild  and  calm,  the  sky 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  9 

without  a  cloud,  and  even  the  leafless  trees  seemed  to  smile 
beneath  the  cheerful  sun.  And  the  young  bride  wept  no 
more ;  she  was  with  him  she  loved,  she  was  his  forever.  She 
forgot  the  rest.  The  hope,  the  heart  of  sixteen,  spoke 
brightly  out  through  the  blushes  that  mantled  over  her  fair 
cheeks.  The  bridegroom's  frank  and  manly  countenance  was 
radiant  with  joy.  As  he  waved  his  hand  to  Caleb  from  the 
window,  the  post-boy  cracked  his  whip,  the  servant  settled 
himself  on  the  dickey,  the  horses  started  off  in  a  brisk  trot, 
the  clergyman  was  left  alone ! 

To  be  married  is  certainly  an  event  in  life :  to  marry  other 
people  is,  for  a  priest,  a  very  ordinary  occurrence;  and  yet 
from  that  day  a  great  change  began  to  operate  in  the  spirits 
and  the  habits  of  Caleb  Price.  Have  you  ever,  my  gentle 
reader,  buried  yourself  for  some  time  quietly  in  the  lazy  ease 
of  a  dull  country  life;  have  you  ever  become  gradually  accus- 
tomed to  its  monotony,  and  inured  to  its  solitude ;  and  just  at 
the  time  when  you  have  half -forgotten  the  great  world  —  that 
mare  magnum  that  frets  and  roars  in  the  distance  —  have  you 
ever  received  in  your  calm  retreat  some  visitor,  full  of  the 
busy  and  excited  life  which  you  imagined  yourself  contented 
to  relinquish?  If  so,  have  you  not  perceived,  that,  in  propor- 
tion as  his  presence  and  communication  either  revived  old 
memories  or  brought  before  you  new  pictures  of  "  the  bright 
tumult "  of  that  existence  of  which  your  guest  made  a  part, 
you  began  to  compare  him  curiously  with  yourself,  —  you 
began  to  feel  that  what  before  was  to  rest  is  now  to  rot;  that 
your  years  are  gliding  from  you  unenjoyed  and  wasted;  that 
the  contrast  between  the  animal  life  of  passionate  civilization 
and  the  vegetable  torpor  of  motionless  seclusion  is  one  that, 
if  you  are  still  young,  it  tasks  your  philosophy  to  bear,  — 
feeling  all  the  while  that  the  torpor  may  be  yours  to  your 
grave?  And  when  your  guest  has  left  you,  when  you  are 
again  alone,  is  the  solitude  the  same  as  it  was  before? 

Our  poor  Caleb  had  for  years  rooted  his  thoughts  to  his 
village.  His  guest  had  been  like  the  Bird  in  the  Fairy  Tale, 
settling  upon  the  quiet  branches,  and  singing  so  loudly  and  so 
gladly  of  the  enchanted  skies  afar,  that  when  it  flew  away  the 


10  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

tree  pined,  nipped  and  withering  in  the  sober  sun  in  which 
before  it  had  basked  contented.  The  guest  was,  indeed,  one 
of  those  men  whose  animal  spirits  exercise  upon  such  as  come 
within  their  circle  the  influence  and  power  usually  ascribed 
only  to  intellectual  qualities.  During  the  month  he  had 
sojourned  with  Caleb,  he  had  brought  back  to  the  poor  parson 
all  the  gayety  of  the  brisk  and  noisy  novitiate  that  preceded 
the  solemn  vow  and  the  dull  retreat, — the  social  parties,  the 
merry  suppers,  the  open-handed,  open-hearted  fellowship  of 
riotous,  delightful,  extravagant,  thoughtless  youth.  And 
Caleb  was  not  a  bookman,  not  a  scholar;  he  had  no  resources 
in  himself,  no  occupation  but  his  indolent  and  ill-paid  duties. 
The  emotions,  therefore,  of  the  Active  Man  were  easily 
aroused  within  him.  But  if  this  comparison  between  his 
past  and  present  life  rendered  him  restless  and  disturbed, 
how  much  more  deeply  and  lastingly  was  he  affected  by  a 
contrast  between  his  own  future  and  that  of  his  friend !  Not 
in  those  points  where  he  could  never  hope  equality,  — wealth 
and  station,  the  conventional  distinctions  to  which,  after  all, 
a  man  of  ordinary  sense  must  sooner  or  later  reconcile  him- 
self, —  but  in  that  one  respect  wherein  all,  high  and  low,  pre- 
tend to  the  same  rights,  —  rights  which  a  man  of  moderate 
warmth  of  feeling  can  never  willingly  renounce,  —  namely,  a 
partner  in  a  lot  however  obscure ;  a  kind  face  by  a  hearth,  no 
matter  how  mean  it  be!  And  his  happier  friend,  like  all  men 
full  of  life,  was  full  of  himself,  —  full  of  his  love,  of  his 
future,  of  the  blessings  of  home  and  wife  and  children. 
Then,  too,  the  young  bride  seemed  so  fair,  so  confiding,  and 
so  tender;  so  formed  to  grace  the  noblest  or  to  cheer  the 
humblest  home!  And  both  were  so  happy,  so  all  in  all  to 
each  other,  as  they  left  that  barren  threshold!  And  the 
priest  felt  all  this,  as,  melancholy  and  envious,  he  turned 
from  the  door  in  that  November  day  to  find  himself  thor- 
oughly alone.  He  now  began  seriously  to  muse  upon  those 
fancied  blessings  which  men  wearied  with  celibacy  see  spring- 
ing heavenward  behind  the  altar.  A  few  weeks  afterwards  a 
notable  change  was  visible  in  the  good  man's  exterior.     He 

he  shaved  every  morning; 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  11 

lie  purchased  a  crop-eared  Welsh  cob ;  and  it  was  soon  known 
in  the  neighbourhood  that  the  only  journey  the  cob  was  ever 
condemned  to  take  was  to  the  house  of  a  certain  squire,  who, 
amidst  a  family  of  all  ages,  boasted  two  very  pretty  marriage- 
able daughters.  That  was  the  second  holiday-time  of  poor 
Caleb,  —  the  love-romance  of  his  life :  it  soon  closed.  On 
learning  the  amount  of  the  pastor's  stipend,  the  squire  refused 
to  receive  his  addresses ;  and  shortly  after,  the  girl  to  whom 
he  had  attached  himself  made  what  the  world  calls  a  happy 
match:  and  perhaps  it  was  one,  for  I  never  heard  that  she 
regretted  the  forsaken  lover.  Probably  Caleb  was  not  one  of 
those  whose  place  in  a  woman's  heart  is  never  to  be  supplied. 
The  lady  married,  the  world  went  round  as  before,  the  brook 
danced  as  merrily  through  the  village,  the  poor  worked  on  the 
week-days,  and  the  urchins  gambolled  round  the  gravestones 
on  the  Sabbath,  —  and  the  pastor's  heart  was  broken.  He 
languished  gradually  and  silently  away.  The  villagers  ob- 
served that  he  had  lost  his  old  good-humoured  smile ;  that  he 
did  not  stop  every  Saturday  evening  at  the  carrier's  gate,  to 
ask  if  there  were  any  news  stirring  in  the  town  which  the 
carrier  weekly  visited;  that  he  did  not  come  to  borrow  the 
stray  newspapers  that  now  and  then  found  their  way  into 
the  village;  that,  as  he  sauntered  along  the  brookside,  his 
clothes  hung  loose  on  his  limbs,  and  that  he  no  longer  "  whis- 
tled as  he  went."  Alas,  he  was  no  longer  "in  want  of 
thought!  "  By  degrees,  the  walks  themselves  were  sus- 
pended; the  parson  was  no  longer  visible:  a  stranger  per- 
formed his  duties. 

One  day,  it  might  be  some  three  years  and  more  after  the 
fatal  visit  I  have  commemorated,  —  one  very  wild  rough  day 
in  early  March,  the  postman  who  made  the  round  of  the 
district  rang  at  the  parson's  bell.  The  single  female  servant, 
her  red  hair  loose  on  her  neck,  replied  to  the  call. 

"And  how  is  the  master?" 

"Very  bad;"  and  the  girl  wiped  her  eyes. 

"He  should  leave  you  something  handsome,"  remarked  the 
postman,  kindly,  as  he  pocketed  the  money  for  the  letter. 

The  pastor  was  in  bed.     The  boisterous  wind  rattled  down 


12  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

the  chimney  and  shook  the  ill-fitting  casement  in  its  rotting 
frame.  The  clothes  he  had  last  worn  were  thrown  carelessly 
about,  unsmoothed,  unbrushed;  the  scanty  articles  of  furni- 
ture were  out  of  their  proper  places:  slovenly  discomfort 
marked  the  death-chamber.  And  by  the  bedside  stood  a 
neighbouring  clergyman,  a  stout,  rustic,  homely,  thoroughly 
Welsh  priest,  who  might  have  sat  for  the  portrait  of  Parson 
Adams. 

"Here  's  a  letter  for  you,"  said  the  visitor. 

"For  me!"  echoed  Caleb,  feebly.  "Ah  —  well  —  is  it  not 
very  dark,  or  are  my  eyes  failing?"  The  clergyman  and  the 
servant  drew  aside  the  curtains,  and  propped  the  sick  man  up. 
He  read  as  follows,  slowly,  and  with  difficulty ;  — 

Dear  Caleb, — At  last  I  can  do  something  for  you.  A  friend 
of  mine  has  a  living  in  his  gift  just  vacant,  worth,  I  understand,  from 
three  to  four  hundred  a  year:  pleasant  neighbourhood,  small  parish. 
And  my  friend  keeps  the  hounds! — just  the  thing  for  you,  He  is, 
however,  a  very  particular  sort  of  person,  —  wants  a  companion,  and 
has  a  horror  of  anything  evangelical ;  wishes,  therefore,  to  see  you  be- 
fore he  decides.  If  you  can  meet  me  in  London  some  day  next  month, 
I  '11  present  you  to  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  settled.  You 
must  think  it  strange  I  never  wrote  to  you  since  we  parted,  but  you 
know  I  never  was  a  very  good  correspondent ;  and  as  I  had  nothing  to 
communicate  advantageous  to  you,  I  thought  it  a  sort  of  insult  to  enlarge 
on  my  own  happiness,  and  so  forth.  All  I  shall  say  on  that  score  is, 
that  I  've  sown  my  wild  oats ;  and  that  you  may  take  my  word  for  it, 
there  's  nothing  that  can  make  a  man  know  how  large  the  heart  is  and 
how  little  the  world,  till  he  comes  home  (perhaps  after  a  hard  day's 
hunting),  and  sees  his  own  fireside,  and  hears  one  dear  welcome ;  and 
—  oh,  by  the  way,  Caleb,  if  you  could  but  see  my  boy,  the  sturdiest  little 
rogue  I  But  enough  of  this.  All  that  vexes  me  is,  that  I  've  never  yet 
been  able  to  declare  my  marriage.  My  uncle,  laowever,  suspects  nothing  ; 
my  wife  bears  up  against  all,  like  an  angel  as  she  is.  Still,  in  case  of 
any  accident,  it  occurs  to  me,  now  I  'm  writing  to  you,  especially  if  you 
leave  the  place,  that  it  may  be  as  well  to  send  me  an  examined  copy  of 
the  reo^ister.  In  those  remote  places  registers  are  often  lost  or  mislaid  ; 
and  it  may  he  useful  hereafter,  when  I  proclaim  the  marriage,  to  clear 
up  all  doubt  as  to  the  fact. 

Good-by,  old  fellow. 

Yours  most  truly,  etc. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  13 

"It  comes  too  late,"  sighed  Caleb,  heavily;  and  the  letter 
fell  from  his  hands.  There  was  a  long  pause.  "Close  the 
shutters,"  said  the  sick  man,  at  last;  "I  think  I  could  sleep: 
and  —  and  —  pick  up  that  letter." 

With  a  trembling  but  eager  gripe  he  seized  the  paper,  as  a 
miser  would  seize  the  deeds  of  an  estate  on  which  he  has 
a  mortgage.  He  smoothed  the  folds,  looked  complacently 
at  the  well  known  hand,  smiled, — a  ghastly  smile! — and 
then  placed  the  letter  under  his  pillow,  and  sank  down;  they 
left  him  alone.  He  did  not  wake  for  some  hours,  and  that 
good  clergyman,  poor  as  himself,  was  again  at  his  post.  The 
only  friendships  that  are  really  with  us  in  the  hour  of  need 
are  those  which  are  cemented  by  equality  of  circumstance. 
In  the  depth  of  home,  in  the  hour  of  tribulation,  by  the  bed 
of  death,  the  rich  and  the  poor  are  seldom  found  side  by  side. 
Caleb  was  evidently  much  feebler;  but  his  sense  seemed 
clearer  than  it  had  been,  and  the  instincts  of  his  native  kind- 
ness were  the  last  that  left  him.  "There  is  something  he 
wants  me  to  do  for  him,"  he  muttered.  "Ah!  I  remember: 
Jones,  will  you  send  for  the  parish  register?  It  is  somewhere 
in  the  vestry-room,  I  think, — but  nothing's  kept  properly. 
Better  go  yourself;  'tis  important." 

Mr.  Jones  nodded,  and  sallied  forth.  The  register  was  not 
in  the  vestry;  the  churchwardens  knew  nothing  about  it;  the 
clerk  —  a  new  clerk,  who  was  also  the  sexton,  and  rather  a 
wild  fellow  —  had  gone  ten  miles  off  to  a  wedding.  Every 
place  was  searched;  till,  at  last,  the  book  was  found,  amidst 
a  heap  of  old  magazines  and  dusty  papers,  in  the  parlour  of 
Caleb  himself.  By  the  time  it  was  brought  to  him,  the  suf- 
ferer was  fast  declining;  with  some  difficulty  his  dim  eye 
discovered  the  place  where,  amidst  the  clumsy  pothooks 
of  the  parishioners,  the  large  clear  hand  of  his  old  friend 
and  the  trembling  characters  of  the  bride  looked  forth, 
distinguished. 

"Extract  this  for  me,  will  you?"  said  Caleb. 

Mr.  Jones  obeyed. 

"  Xow,  just  write  above  the  extract :  — 


14  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

"  '  Sir,  —  By  Mr.  Price's  desire  I  send  you  the  inclosed.  He  is  too 
ill  to  write  himself ;  but  he  bids  me  say  that  he  has  never  been  quite  the 
same  man  since  you  left  him  ;  and  that,  if  he  should  not  get  well  again, 
still  your  kind  letter  has  made  him  easier  in  his  mind.'  " 

Caleb  stopped. 

"Go  on." 

"That  is  all  I  liave  to  say:  sign  your  name,  and  put  the 
address, — here  it  is.  Ah,  the  letter,"  he  muttered,  "must 
not  lie  about!  If  anything  happens  to  me,  it  may  get  him 
into  trouble." 

And  as  Mr.  Jones  sealed  his  communication,  Caleb  feebly 
stretched  his  wan  hand,  held  the  letter  which  had  "come  too 
late"  over  the  flame  of  the  candle.  As  the  blazing  paper 
dropped  on  the  carpetless  floor,  Mr.  Jones  prudently  set 
thereon  the  broad  sole  of  his  top-boot,  and  the  maidservant 
brushed  the  tinder  into  the  grate. 

"Ah,  trample  it  out;  hurry  it  amongst  the  ashes,  — the  last 
as  the  rest,"  said  Caleb,  hoarsely.  "Friendship,  fortune, 
hope,  love,  life,  a  little  flame,  and  then  —  and  then  —  " 

"Don't  be  uneasy  —  it 's  quite  out!  "  said  Mr.  Jones. 

Caleb  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  He  lingered  till  the  next 
day,  when  he  passed  insensibly  from  sleep  to  death.  As  soon 
as  the  breath  was  out  of  his  body,  Mr.  Jones  felt  that  his  duty 
was  discharged,  that  other  duties  called  him  home.  He  prom- 
ised to  return  to  read  the  burial-service  over  the  deceased, 
gave  some  hasty  orders  about  the  plain  funeral,  and  was  turn- 
ing from  the  room,  when  he  saw  the  letter  he  had  written  by 
Caleb's  wish  still  on  the  table.  "I  pass  the  post-office,  I'll 
put  it  in,"  said  he  to  the  weeping  servant;  "and  just  give  me 
that  scrap  of  paper."  So  he  wrote  on  the  scrap,  "P.  S.  He 
died  this  morning  at  half-past  twelve,  without  pain.  — M.  J. ;  " 
and,  not  taking  the  trouble  to  break  the  seal,  thrust  the  final 
bulletin  into  the  folds  of  the  letter,  which  he  then  carefully 
placed  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  safely  transferred  to  the  post. 
And  that  was  all  that  the  jovial  and  happy  man  to  whom  the 
letter  was  addressed  ever  heard  of  the  last  days  of  his  college 
friend. 

The  living,  vacant  by  the  death  of  Caleb  Price,  was  not  so 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  16 

valuable  as  to  plague  the  patron  with,  many  applications.  It 
continued  vacant  nearly  the  whole  of  the  six  months  pre- 
scribed by  law;  and  the  desolate  parsonage  was  committed  to 
the  charge  of  one  of  the  villagers,  who  had  occasionally 
assisted  Caleb  in  the  care  of  his  little  garden.  The  villager, 
his  wife,  and  half-a-dozen  noisy,  ragged  children  took  posses- 
sion of  the  quiet  bachelor's  abode.  The  furniture  had  been 
sold  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  funeral,  and  a  few  trifling 
bills;  and,  save  the  kitchen  and  the  two  attics,  the  empty 
house,  uninhabited,  was  surrendered  to  the  sportive  mischief 
of  the  idle  urchins,  who  prowled  about  the  silent  chambers, 
in  fear  of  the  silence  and  in  ecstasy  at  the  space.  The  bed- 
room in  which  Caleb  had  died  was,  indeed,  long  held  sacred 
by  infantine  superstition ;  but  one  day  the  eldest  boy  having 
ventured  across  the  threshold,  two  cupboards,  the  doors  stand- 
ing ajar,  attracted  the  child's  curiosity.  He  opened  one,  and 
his  exclamation  soon  brought  the  rest  of  the  children  round 
him.  Have  you  ever,  reader,  when  a  boy,  suddenly  stumbled 
on  that  El  Dorado  called  by  the  grown-up  folks  a  lumber- 
room?  Lumber,  indeed!  what  Virtit  double-locks  in  cabinets 
is  the  real  lumber  to  the  boy!  Lumber,  reader!  to  thee  it 
was  a  treasury!  Now  this  cupboard  had  been  the  lumber- 
room  in  Caleb's  household.  In  an  instant  the  whole  troop 
had  thrown  themselves  on  the  motley  contents.  Stray  joints 
of  clumsy  fishing-rods;  artificial  baits;  a  pair  of  worn-out 
top-boots,  in  which  one  of  the  urchins,  whooping  and  shout- 
ing, buried  himself  up  to  the  middle;  moth-eaten,  stained, 
and  ragged,  the  collegian's  gown, — relic  of  the  dead  man's 
palmy  time;  a  bag  of  carpenter's  tools,  chiefly  broken;  a 
cricket-bat;  an  odd  boxing-glove;  a  fencing-foil,  snapped  in 
the  middle;  and,  more  than  all,  some  half -finished  attempts 
at  rude  toys,  — a  boat,  a  cart,  a  doll's  house,  — in  which  the 
good-natured  Caleb  had  busied  himself  for  the  younger  ones 
of  that  family  in  which  he  had  found  the  fatal  ideal  of  his 
trite  life.  One  by  one  were  these  lugged  forth  from  their 
dusty  slumber,  profane  hands  struggling  for  the  first  right 
of  appropriation.  And  now,  revealed  against  the  wall,  glared 
upon  the  startled  violaters  of  the  sanctuary,  with  glassy  eyes 


16  NIGHT   AXD  MORNING. 

and  horrent  visage,  a  grim  monster.  They  huddled  back  one 
upon  the  other,  pale  and  breathless,  till  the  eldest,  seeing 
that  the  creature  moved  not,  took  heart,  approached  on  tip- 
toe, twice  receded  and  twice  again  advanced,  and  finally  drew 
out,  daubed,  painted,  and  tricked  forth  in  the  semblance  of  a 
griffin,  a  gigantic  kite. 

The  children,  alas !  were  not  old  and  wise  enough  to  know 
all  the  dormant  value  of  that  imprisoned  aeronaut,  which  had 
cost  Caleb  many  a  dull  evening's  labor,  — the  intended  gift  to 
the  false  one's  favourite  brother.  But  they  guessed  that  it  was 
a  thing  or  spirit  appertaining  of  right  to  them;  and  thej'-  re- 
solved, after  mature  consultation,  to  impart  the  secret  of  their 
discovery  to  an  old  wooden-legged  villager,  who  had  served 
in  the  army,  who  was  the  idol  of  all  the  children  of  the  place, 
and  who,  they  firmly  believed,  knew  everything  under  the 
sun,  except  the  mystical  arts  of  reading  and  writing.  Accord- 
ingly, having  seen  that  the  coast  was  clear,  —  for  they  con- 
sidered their  parents  (as  the  children  of  the  hard-working 
often  do)  the  natural  foes  to  amusement,  —  they  carried  the 
monster  into  an  old  outhouse,  and  ran  to  the  veteran  to  beg 
him  to  come  up  slyly  and  inspect  its  properties. 

Three  months  after  this  memorable  event  arrived  the  new 
pastor,  —  a  slim,  prim,  orderly,  and  starch  young  man,  framed 
by  nature  and  trained  by  practice  to  bear  a  great  deal  of  soli- 
tude and  starving.  Two  loving  couples  had.  waited  to  be 
married  till  his  Keverence  should  arrive.  The  ceremony 
performed,  where  was  the  registry-book?  The  vestry  was 
searched;  the  churchwardens  interrogated.  The  gay  clerk, 
who,  on  the  demise  of  his  deaf  predecessor,  had  come  into 
office  a  little  before  Caleb's  last  illness,  had  a  dim  recollection 
of  having  taken  the  registry  up  to  Mr.  Price  at  the  time  the 
vestry-room  was  whitewashed.  The  house  was  searched;  the 
cupboard,  the  mysterious  cupboard,  was  explored.  "  Here  it  is, 
sir!  "  cried  the  clerk;  and  he  pounced  vipon  a  pale  parchment 
volume.  The  thin  clergyman  opened  it,  and  recoiled  in  dismay, 
—  more  than  three-fourths  of  the  leaves  had  been  torn  out. 

"It  is  the  moths,  sir,"  said  the  gardener's  wife,  who  had 
not  yet  removed  from  the  house. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  17 

The  clergyman  looked  round;  one  of  the  chiklren  was 
trembling.     "What  have  you  done  to  this  book,  little  one?" 

"  That  book?  —  the  —  hi !  —hi !  —  " 

"Speak  the  truth,  and  you  sha'  n't  be  punished." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  any  harm,  —  hi !  —  hi !  —  " 

"Well,  and  —  " 

"And  old  Ben  helped  us." 

"Well?" 

"  And  —  and  —  and  —  hi !  —  hi !  —  the  tail  of  the  kite, 
sir!  —  " 

"Where  is  the  kite?" 

Alas !  the  kite  and  its  tail  were  long  ago  gone  to  that  undis- 
covered limbo  where  all  things  lost,  broken,  vanished,  and 
destroyed  —  things  that  lose  themselves,  —  for  servants  are 
too  honest  to  steal ;  things  that  break  themselves,  —  for  ser- 
vants are  too  careful  to  break  —  find  an  everlasting  and  im- 
penetrable refuge. 

"It  does  not  signify  a  pin's  head,"  said  the  clerk;  "the 
parish  must  find  a  new  'un !  " 

"  It  is  no  fault  of  mine, "  said  the  pastor.  "  Are  my  chops 
ready?" 


CHAPTEK  II. 

And  soothed  with  idle  dreams  the  frowning  fate.  —  Crabbe. 

"Why  does  not  my  father  come  back?  what  a  time  he  has 
been  away ! " 

"My  dear  Philip,  business  detains  him;  but  he  will  be  here 
in  a  few  days,  —  perhaps  to-day !  " 

"I  should  like  him  to  see  how  much  I  am  improved." 

"Improved  in  what,  Philip?"  said  the  mother,  with  a 
smile ;  "  not  Latin,  I  am  sure,  for  I  have  not  seen  you  open 
a  book  since  you  insisted  on  poor  Todd's  dismissal." 


18  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Todd!  Oh,  he  was  such  a  scrub,  and  spoke  through  his 
nose :  what  could  he  know  of  Latin?  " 

"  More  than  you  ever  will,  I  fear,  unless  "  —  and  here  there 
was  a  certain  hesitation  in  the  mother's  voice, —  ''unless  your 
father  consents  to  your  going  to  school." 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  go  to  Eton!  That 's  the  only  school 
for  a  gentleman.     I  've  heard  my  father  say  so." 

"Philip,  you  are  too  proud." 

"Proud!  you  often  call  me  proud;  but,  then,  you  kiss  me 
when  you  do  so.     Kiss  me  now,  Mother." 

The  lady  drew  her  son  to  her  breast,  put  aside  the  cluster- 
ing hair  from  his  forehead,  and  kissed  him;  but  the  kiss  was 
sad,  and  the  moment  after  she  pushed  him  away  gently  and 
muttered,  unconscious  that  she  was  overheard,  — 

"  If,  after  all,  my  devotion  to  the  father  should  wrong  the 
children! " 

The  boy  started,  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his  brow ;  but  he 
said  nothing.  A  light  step  entered  the  room  through  the 
French  casements  that  opened  on  the  lawn,  and  the  mother 
turned  to  her  youngest-born,  and  her  eye  brightened. 

"Mamma!  Mamma!  here  is  a  letter  for  you.  I  snatched 
it  from  John:  it  is  Papa's  handwriting." 

The  lady  uttered  a  joyous  exclamation,  and  seized  the 
letter.  The  younger  child  nestled  himself  on  a  stool  at  her 
feet,  looking  up  while  she  read  it;  the  elder  stood  apart, 
leaning  on  his  gun,  and  with  something  of  thought,  even  of 
gloom,  upon  his  countenance. 

There  was  a  strong  contrast  in  the  two  boys.  The  elder, 
who  was  about  fifteen,  seemed  older  than  he  was,  not  only 
from  his  height,  but  from  the  darkness  of  his  complexion,  and 
a  certain  proud,  nay,  imperious,  expression  upon  features  that 
without  having  the  soft  and  fluent  graces  of  childhood  were 
yet  regular  and  striking.  His  dark-green  shooting-dress, 
with  the  belt  and  pouch,  the  cap,  with  its  gold  tassel  set 
upon  his  luxuriant  curls,  which  had  the  purple  gloss  of  the 
raven's  plume,  blended  perhaps  something  prematurely  manl}- 
in  his  own  tastes  with  the  love  of  the  fantastic  and  the  pict- 
uresque which  bespeaks  the  presiding  genius  of  the  proud 


XIGIIT  AND  MORNING.  19 

mother.  The  younger  son  had  scarcely  told  his  ninth  year, 
and  the  soft,  auburn  ringlets,  descending  half-way  down  the 
shoulders;  the  rich  and  delicate  bloom  that  exhibits  at  once 
the  hardy  health  and  the  gentle  fostering;  the  large  deep  blue 
eyes;  the  flexile  and  almost  effeminate  contour  of  the  har- 
monious features, — altogether  made  such  an  ideal  of  child- 
like beauty  as  Lawrence  had  loved  to  paint  or  Chantrey 
model.  And  the  daintiest  cares  of  a  mother,  who,  as  yet,  ha? 
her  darling  all  to  herself  — her  toy,  her  plaything  —  were 
visible  in  the  large  falling  collar  of  finest  cambric,  and 
the  blue  velvet  dress  with  its  filagree  buttons  and  em- 
broidered sash. 

Both  the  boys  had  about  them  the  air  of  those  whom  Fate 
ushers  blandly  into  life,  —  the  air  of  wealth,  and  birth,  and 
luxury,  spoiled  and  pampered  as  if  earth  had  no  thorn  for 
their  feet  and  heaven  not  a  wind  to  visit  their  young  cheeks 
too  roughly.  The  mother  had  been  extremely  handsome ;  and 
though  the  first  bloom  of  youth  was  now  gone,  she  had  still 
the  beauty  that  might  captivate  new  love,  —  an  easier  task 
than  to  retain  the  old.  Both  her  sons,  though  differing  from 
each  other,  resembled  her:  she  had  the  features  of  the 
younger ;  and  probably  any  one  who  had  seen  her  in  her  own 
earlier  youth  would  have  recognized  in  that  child's  gay  yet 
gentle  countenance  the  mirror  of  the  mother  when  a  girl. 
Now,  however,  especially  when  silent  or  thoughtful,  the 
expression  of  her  face  was  rather  that  of  the  elder  boy;  the 
cheek  once  so  rosy  was  now  pale,  though  clear,  with  some- 
thing Avhich  time  had  given  of  pride  and  thought  in  the  curved 
lip  and  the  high  forehead.  One  who  could  have  looked  on 
her  in  her  more  lonely  hours  might  have  seen  that  the  pride 
had  known  shame  and  the  thought  was  the  shadow  of  the 
passions  of  fear  and  sorrow. 

But  now  as  she  read  those  hasty,  brief,  but  well-remembered 
characters,  —  read  as  one  whose  heart  was  in  her  eyes,  —  joy 
and  triumph  alone  were  visible  in  that  eloquent  countenance. 
Her  eyes  flashed,  her  breast  heaved ;  and  at  length,  clasping 
the  letter  to  her  lips,  she  kissed  it  again  and  again  with  pas- 
sionate transport.     Then,  as  her  eyes  met  the  dark,  inquir- 


20  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

iug,  earnest  gaze  of  her  eldest  born,  she  flung  her  arms  round 
liiui,  and  wept  vehemently. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mamma,  dear  ]\Iamma?"  said  the 
youngest,  pushing  himself  between  Philip  and  his  mother. 

"Your  father  is  coming  back,  this  day,  this  very  hour;  and 
you  —  you  —  child  —  you,  Philip  —  "  Here  sobs  broke  in 
upon  her  words,  and  left  her  speechless. 

The  letter  that  had  produced  this  effect  ran  as  follows :  — 

To  Mrs.  Morton,  Fernside  Cottage. 

Dearest  Kate, — My  last  letter  prepared  you  for  the  news  I  have 
now  to  relate,  — my  poor  uncle  is  no  more.  Though  I  had  seen  little  of 
him,  especially  of  late  years,  his  death  sensibly  affected  me ;  but  I  have 
at  least  the  consolation  of  thinking  that  there  is  nothing  now  to  prevent 
my  doing  justice  to  you.  I  am  the  sole  heir  to  his  fortune.  I  have  it 
in  my  power,  dearest  Kate,  to  offer  you  a  tardy  recompense  for  all  you 
have  put  up  with  for  my  sake,  —  a  sacred  testimony  to  your  long  for- 
bearance, your  unreproachful  love,  your  wrongs,  and  your  devotion. 
Our  children,  too— my  noble  Philip!  —  kiss  them,  Kate  —  kiss  them 
for  me  a  thousand  times. 

I  write  in  great  haste  ;  the  burial  is  just  over,  and  my  letter  will  only 
serve  to  announce  my  return.  My  darling  Catherine,  I  shall  be  with 
you  almost  as  soon  as  these  lines  meet  your  eyes,  —  those  dear  eyes, 
that  for  all  the  tears  they  have  shed  for  my  faults  and  follies  have  never 
looked  the  less  kind. 

Yours,  ever  as  ever, 

Philip  Beaufort. 

This  letter  has  told  its  tale,  and  little  remains  to  explain. 
Philip  Beaufort  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom  there  are  many 
in  his  peculiar  class  of  society,  —  easy,  thoughtless,  good- 
humoured,  generous,  with  feelings  infinitely  better  than  his 
principles. 

Inheriting  himself  but  a  moderate  fortune,  which  was  three 
parts  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  before  he  was  twenty-five,  he 
had  the  most  brilliant  expectations  from  his  uncle,  —  an  old 
bachelor,  who  from  a  courtier  had  turned  a  misanthrope,  cold, 
shrewd,  penetrating,  worldly,  sarcastic,  and  imperious;  and 
from  this  relation  he  received,  meanwhile,  a  handsome,  and, 
indeed,  munificent  allowance.     About  sixteen  years  before 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  21 

the  date  at  which  this  narrative  opens,  Philij^  Beaufort  had 
"run  oft',"  as  the  saying  is,  with  Catherine  Morton,  then  little 
more  than  a  child,  —  a  motherless  child,  —  educated  at  a 
boarding-school  to  notions  and  desires  far  beyond  her  station, 
—  for  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  provincial  tradesman;  and 
Philip  Beaufort,  in  the  prime  of  life,  was  possessed  of  most 
of  the  qualities  that  dazzle  the  eyes  and  many  of  the  arts  that 
betray  the  affections.  It  was  suspected  by  some  that  they 
were  privately  married:  if  so,  the  secret  had  been  closely 
kept,  and  baffled  all  the  inquiries  of  the  stern  old  uncle.  Still 
there  was  much,  not  only  in  the  manner,  at  once  modest  and 
dignified,  but  in  the  character  of  Catherine,  which  was  proud 
and  high-spirited,  to  give  colour  to  the  suspicion.  Beaufort,  a 
man  naturally  careless  of  forms,  paid  her  a  marked  and  punc- 
tilious respect ;  and  his  attachment  was  evidently  one  not  only 
of  passion  but  of  confidence  and  esteem.  Time  developed  in 
her  mental  qualities  far  superior  to  those  of  Beaufort,  and  for 
these  she  had  ample  leisure  of  cultivation.  To  the  influence 
derived  from  her  mind  and  person  she  added  that  of  a  frank, 
affectionate,  and  winning  disposition;  their  children  cemented 
the  bond  between  them.  Mr.  Beaufort  was  passionately 
attached  to  field  sports.  He  lived  the  greater  part  of  the 
year  with  Catherine  at  the  beautiful  cottage  to  which  he  had 
built  hunting  stables  that  were  the  admiration  of  the  county ; 
and  though  the  cottage  was  near  London,  the  pleasures  of  the 
metropolis  seldom  allured  him  for  more  than  a  few  days  — 
generally  but  a  few  hours  —  at  a  time,  and  he  always  hurried 
back  with  renewed  relish  to  what  he  considered  his  home. 

Whatever  the  connection  between  Catherine  and  himself 
(and  of  the  true  nature  of  that  connection  the  Introductory 
Chapter  has  made  the  reader  more  enlightened  than  the 
world),  her  influence  had  at  least  weaned  from  all  excesses 
and  many  follies  a  man  who,  before  he  knew  her,  had  seemed 
likely  from  the  extreme  joviality  and  carelessness  of  his 
nature  and  a  very  imperfect  education  to  contract  whatever 
vices  were  most  in  fashion  as  preservatives  against  ennui. 
And  if  their  union  had  been  openly  hallowed  by  the  Church, 
Philip  Beaufort  had  been  universally  esteemed  the  model  of  a 


22  NIGHT   AXD   MORXIXG. 

tender  husband  and  a  fond  father.  Ever,  as  he  became  more 
and  more  acquainted  with  Catherine's  natural  good  qualities 
and  more  and  more  attached  to  his  home,  had  Mr,  Beaufort, 
with  the  generosity  of  true  affection,  desired  to  remove  from 
her  the  pain  of  an  equivocal  condition  by  a  ])ublic  marriage. 
But  Mr,  Beaufort,  though  generous,  was  not  free  from  the 
worldliness  which  had  met  him  everywhere  amidst  the  society 
in  which  his  youth  had  been  spent.  His  uncle,  the  head  of 
one  of  those  families  which  yearly  vanish  from  the  common- 
alty into  the  peerage,  but  which  once  formed  a  distinguished 
peculiarity  in  the  aristocracy  of  England,  —  families  of  an- 
cient birth,  immense  possessions,  at  once  noble  and  untitled, 
—  held  his  estates  by  no  other  tenure  than  his  own  caprice. 
Though  he  professed  to  like  Philip,  yet  he  saw  but  little  of 
him.  When  the  news  of  the  illicit  connection  his  nephew 
was  reported  to  have  formed  reached  him,  he  at  first  resolved 
to  break  it  off;  but  observing  that  Philip  no  longer  gambled 
nor  ran  in  debt,  and  had  retired  from  the  turf  to  the  safer  and 
more  economical  pastimes  of  the  field,  he  contented  himself 
with  inquiries  which  satisfied  him  that  Philip  was  not  mar- 
ried; and  perhaps  he  thought  it,  on  the  whole,  more  prudent 
to  wink  at  an  error  that  was  not  attended  by  the  bills  which 
had  heretofore  characterized  the  human  infirmities  of  his  reck- 
less nephew.  He  took  care,  however,  incidentally,  and  in 
reference  to  some  scandal  of  the  day,  to  pronounce  his  opin- 
ion, not  upon  the  fault  but  upon  the  only  mode  of  repairing  it. 

"If  ever,"  said  he,  and  he  looked  grimly  at  Philip  while  he 
spoke,  "  a  gentleman  were  to  disgrace  his  ancestry  by  intro- 
ducing into  his  family  one  whom  his  own  sister  could  not 
receive  at  her  house,  why,  he  ought  to  sink  to  her  level,  and 
wealth  would  but  make  his  disgrace  the  more  notorious.  If 
I  had  an  only  son,  and  that  son  were  booby  enough  to  do  any- 
thing so  discreditable  as  to  marry  beneath  him,  I  would  rather 
have  my  footman  for  my  successor.     You  understand,  Phil !  " 

Philip  did  understand,  and  looked  round  at  the  noble  house 
and  the  stately  park,  and  his  generosity  was  not  equal  to  the 
trial.  Catherine  —  so  great  was  her  power  over  him  —  might 
perhaps  have  easilj'  triumphed  over  his  more  selfish  caloula- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  23 

tions ;  but  her  love  was  too  delicate  ever  to  breathe  of  itself 
the  hope  that  lay  deepest  at  her  heart.  And  her  children!  — 
ah!  for  them  she  pined,  but  for  them  she  also  hoped.  Before 
them  was  a  long  future,  and  she  had  all  confidence  in  Philip. 
Of  late,  there  had  been  considerable  doubts  how  far  the  elder 
Beaufort  would  realize  the  expectations  in  which  his  nephew 
had  been  reared.  Philip's  younger  brother  had  been  much 
with  the  old  gentleman,  and  appeared  to  be  in  high  favour : 
this  brother  was  a  man  in  every  respect  the  opposite  to 
Philip  —  sober,  supple,  decorous,  ambitious,  with  a  face  of 
smiles  and  a  heart  of  ice. 

But  the  old  gentleman  was  taken  dangerously  ill,  and 
Philip  was  summoned  to  his  bed  of  death.  Eobert,  the 
younger  brother,  was  there  also,  with  his  wife  (for  he  had 
married  prudently)  and  his  children,  —  he  had  two,  a  son  and 
a  daughter.  Not  a  word  did  the  uncle  say  as  to  the  disposi- 
tion of  his  property  till  an  hour  before  he  died.  And  then, 
turning  in  his  bed,  he  looked  first  at  one  nephew,  then  at  the 
other,  and  faltered  out, — 

"Philip,  you  are  a  scapegrace,  but  a  gentleman!  Eobert, 
you  are  a  careful,  sober,  plausible  man,  and  it  is  a  great  pity 
you  were  not  in  business;  you  would  have  made  a  fortune! 
—  you  won't  inherit  one,  though  you  think  it:  I  have  marked 
you,  sir.  Philip,  beware  of  your  brother.  Now,  let  me  see 
the  parson." 

The  old  man  died;  the  will  was  read;  and  Philip  succeeded 
to  a  rental  of  £20,000  a  year;  Robert,  to  a  diamond  ring,  a 
gold  repeater,  £5,000,  and  a  curious  collection  of  bottled 
snakes. 


24  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Stay,  delightful  Dream ; 
Let  him  within  his  pleasant  garden  walk  ; 
Give  him  her  arm  —  of  blessings  let  them  talk.  —  Crabbe. 

"There,  Robert,  there!  now  you  can  see  the  new  stables. 
By  Jove,  they  are  the  completest  thing  in  the  three  kingdoms !" 

"Quite  a  pile!  But  is  that  the  house?  You  lodge  your 
horses  more  magnificently  than  yourself." 

"But  is  it  not  a  beautiful  cottage?  —  to  be  sure,  it  owes 
everything  to  Catherine's  taste.     Dear  Catherine!  " 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  —  for  this  colloquy  took  place  between 
the  brothers,  as  their  hritska  rapidly  descended  the  hill  at  the 
foot  of  which  lay  Fernside  Cottage  and  its  miniature  demesnes 
—  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  pulled  his  travelling-cap  over  his 
brows,  and  his  countenance  fell,  whether  at  the  name  of 
Catherine,  or  the  tone  in  which  the  name  was  uttered;  and 
there  was  a  pause,  broken  by  a  third  occupant  of  the  britska, 
a  youth  of  about  seventeen,  who  sat  opposite  the  brothers, 

"And  who  are  those  boys  on  the  lawn,  uncle?" 

"Who  are  those  boys?"  It  was  a  simple  question,  but  it 
grated  on  the  ear  of  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort;  it  struck  discord 
at  his  heart.  "Who  were  those  boys?"  as  they  ran  across 
the  sward,  eager  to  welcome  their  father  home,  — the  Avester- 
ing  sun  shining  full  on  their  joyous  faces,  their  young  forms 
so  lithe  and  so  graceful,  their  merry  laughter  ringing  in  the 
still  air.  "Those  boys,"  thought  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  "the 
sons  of  shame,  rob  mine  of  his  inheritance."  The  elder 
brother  turned  round  at  his  nephew's  question,  and  saw  the 
expression  od  Robert's  face.  He  bit  his  lip,  and  answered 
gravely,  — 

"Arthur,  they  are  my  children." 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  married,"  replied  Arthur,  bend- 
ing forward  to  take  a  better  view  of  his  cousins. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  25 

Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort  smiled  bitterly,  and  Philip's  brow 
grew  crimson. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  little  lodge.  Philip  opened  the 
door,  and  jumped  to  the  ground ;  the  brother  and  his  son  fol- 
lowed. A  moment  more,  and  Philip  was  locked  in  Catherine's 
arms,  her  tears  falling  fast  upon  his  breast,  his  children 
plucking  at  his  coat ;  and  the  younger  one  crying,  in  his  shrill 
impatient  treble,  "Papa!  Papa!  you  don't  see  Sidney, 
Papa!" 

Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort  placed  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder, 
and  arrested  his  steps,  as  they  contemplated  the  group  before 
them. 

*'  Arthur, "  said  he,  in  a  hollow  whisper,  "  those  children  are 
our  disgrace  and  your  supplanters ;  they  are  bastards!  bas- 
tards !  and  they  are  to  be  his  heirs !  " 

Arthur  made  no  answer,  but  the  smile  with  which  he  had 
hitherto  gazed  on  his  new  relations  vanished. 

"Kate,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  as  he  turned  from  Mrs.  Morton, 
and  lifted  his  youngest-born  in  his  arms,  "this  is  my  brother 
and  his  son:  they  are  welcome,  are  they  not?" 

Mr.  Eobert  bowed  low,  and  extended  his  hand,  with  stiff 
affability,  to  Mrs.  Morton,  muttering  something  equally  com- 
plimentary and  inaudible. 

The  party  proceeded  towards  the  house.  Philip  and  Arthur 
brought  up  the  rear. 

"Do  you  shoot?"  asked  Arthur,  observing  the  gun  in  his 
cousin's  hand. 

"Yes.  I  hope  this  season  to  bag  as  many  head  as  my 
father :  he  is  a  famous  shot.  But  this  is  only  a  single  barrel, 
and  an  old-fashioned  sort  of  detonator.  My  father  must  get 
me  one  of  the  new  guns.     I  can't  afford  it  myself." 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  Arthur,  smiling. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  resumed  Philip,  quickly,  and  with  a 
heightened  colour,  "I  could  have  managed  it  very  well  if  I 
had  not  given  thirty  guineas  for  a  brace  of  pointers  the  other 
day:  they  are  the  best  dogs  you  ever  saw." 

"  Thirty  guineas !  "  echoed  Arthur,  looking  with  naive  sur- 
prise at  the  speaker;  "why,  how  old  are  you?" 


26  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Just  fifteen  last  birthday.  Holla,  John!  John  Green!" 
cried  the  young  gentleman  in  an  imperious  voice,  to  one  of 
the  gardeners,  who  was  crossing  the  lawn,  "  see  that  the  nets 
are  taken  down  to  the  lake  to-morrow,  and  that  my  tent  is 
pitched  properly  by  the  lime-trees  by  nine  o'clock.  I  hope 
you  will  understand  me  this  time :  Heaven  knows  you  take  a 
deal  of  telling  before  you  understand  anything !  " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Philip,"  said  the  man,  bowing  obsequiously;  and 
then  muttered,  as  he  went  off,  "Drat  the  nat'rel!  he  speaks  to 
a  poor  man  as  if  he  warn't  flesh  and  blood." 

"Does  your  father  keep  hunters?"  asked  Philip. 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"Perhaps  one  reason  may  be  that  he  is  not  rich  enough." 

"Oh,  that's  a  pity!  Never  mind,  we  '11  mount  you,  when- 
ever you  like  to  pay  us  a  visit." 

Young  Arthur  drew  himself  up,  and  his  air,  naturally  frank 
and  gentle,  became  haughty  and  reserved.  Philip  gazed  on 
him,  and  felt  offended;  he  scarce  knew  why,  but  from  that 
moment  he  conceived  a  dislike  to  his  cousin. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

For  a  man  is  helpless  and  vain,  of  a  condition  so  exposed  to  calamity  that 
a  raisin  is  able  to  kill  him  ;  any  trooper  out  of  the  Egyptian  army,  a  fly  can 
do  it,  when  it  goes  on  God's  errand, —Jeremy  Taylor:  On  the  Deceit- 
Julness  of  the  Heart. 

The  two  brothers  sat  at  their  wine  after  dinner.  Kobert 
sipped  claret,  the  sturdy  Philip  quaffed  his  more  generous 
port.  Catherine  and  the  boys  might  be  seen  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  by  the  light  of  a  soft  August  moon,  among  the 
shrubs  and  bosquets  of  the  lawn. 

Philip  Beaufort  was  about  five-and-forty,  tall,  robust,  nay, 
of  great  strength  of  frame  and  limb;   with  a  countenance 


NIGHT  AXD  MORNING.  27 

extremely  winning,  not  only  from  the  comeliness  of  its  feat- 
ures, but  its  frankness,  manliness,  and  good  nature.  His  was 
the  bronzed,  rich  complexion,  the  inclination  towards  embon- 
point, the  athletic  girth  of  chest,  which  denote  redundant 
health  and  mirthful  temper  and  sanguine  blood.  Robert, 
who  had  lived  the  life  of  cities,  was  a  year  younger  than  his 
brother;  nearly  as  tall,  but  pale,  meagre,  stooping,  and  with 
a  careworn,  anxious,  hungry  look,  which  made  the  smile  that 
hung  upon  his  lips  seem  hollow  and  artificial.  His  dress, 
though  plain,  was  neat  and  studied;  his  manner,  bland  and 
plausible;  his  voice,  sweet  and  low.  There  was  that  about 
him  which,  if  it  did  not  win  liking,  tended  to  excite  respect, 
—  a  certain  decorum,  a  nameless  propriety  of  appearance  and 
bearing,  that  approached  a  little  to  formality;  his  every  move- 
ment, slow  and  measured,  was  that  of  one  who  paced  in  the 
circle  that  fences  round  the  habits  and  usages  of  the  world. 

"Yes,"  said  Philip,  "I  had  always  decided  to  take  this 
step,  whenever  my  poor  uncle's  death  should  allow  me  to  do 
so.  You  have  seen  Catherine,  but  you  do  not  know  half  her 
good  qualities:  she  would  grace  any  station;  and,  besides, 
she  nursed  me  so  carefully  last  year,  when  I  broke  my  collar- 
bone in  that  cursed  steeple-chase.  Egad,  I  am  getting  too 
heavy  and  growing  too  old  for  such  schoolboy  pranks." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  Mrs.  Morton's  excellence,  and  I  honour 
your  motives ;  still,  when  you  talk  of  her  gracing  any  station, 
you  must  not  forget,  my  dear  brother,  that  she  will  be  no  more 
received  as  Mrs.  Beaufort  than  she  is  now  as  Mrs.  Morton." 

"But  I  tell  you,  Robert,  that  I  am  really  married  to  her 
already ;  that  she  would  never  have  left  her  home  but  on  that 
condition ;  that  we  were  married  the  very  day  we  met  after 
her  flight." 

Robert's  thin  lips  broke  into  a  slight  sneer  of  incredulity. 

"My  dear  brother,  you  do  right  to  say  this,  — any  man  in 
your  situation  would  say  the  same ;  but  I  know  that  my  uncle 
took  every  pains  to  ascertain  if  the  report  of  a  private  mar- 
riage were  true." 

"  And  you  helped  him  in  the  search.     Eh,  Bob?  " 

Bob  slightly  blushed.     Philip  went  on. 


28  NIGHT  AXD  MORNIXG. 

"Ha,  ha!  to  be  sure  you  did;  you  knew  that  such  a  dis- 
covery would  have  done  for  me  in  the  old  gentleman's  good 
opinion.  But  I  blinded  you  both,  ha,  ha!  The  fact  is  that 
we  were  married  with  the  greatest  privacy ;  that  even  now,  I 
own,  it  would  be  difficult  for  Catherine  herself  to  establish 
the  fact,  unless  I  wished  it.  I  am  ashamed  to  think  that  I 
have  never  even  told  her  where  I  keep  the  main  proof  of  the 
marriage.  I  induced  one  witness  to  leave  the  country;  the 
other  must  be  long  since  dead;  my  poor  friend,  too,  who  offi- 
ciated, is  no  more.  Even  the  register,  Bob,  the  register 
itself,  has  been  destroyed;  and  yet,  notwithstanding,  I  will 
prove  the  ceremony  and  clear  up  poor  Catherine's  fame,  for 
I  have  the  attested  copy  of  the  register  safe  and  sound. 
Catherine  not  married !  why,  look  at  her,  man ! " 

Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort  glanced  at  the  window  for  a  moment, 
but  his  countenance  was  still  that  of  one  unconvinced. 

"  Well,  brother, "  said  he,  dipping  his  fingers  in  the  water- 
glass,  "  it  is  not  for  me  to  contradict  you.  It  is  a  very  curious 
tale,  —  parson  dead,  witnesses  missing.  But  still,  as  I  said 
before,  if  you  are  resolved  on  a  public  marriage,  you  are  wise 
to  insist  that  there  has  been  a  previous  private  one.  Yet, 
believe  me,  Philip,"  continued  Robert,  with  solemn  earnest- 
ness, "the  world  —  " 

"D the  world!     What  do  I  care  for  the  world?    We 

don't  want  to  go  to  routs  and  balls,  and  give  dinners  to  fine 
people.  I  shall  live  much  the  same  as  I  have  always  done ; 
only,  I  shall  now  keep  the  hounds,  —  they  are  very  indiffer- 
ently kept  at  present,  —  and  have  a  yacht ;  and  engage  the 
best  masters  for  the  boys.  Phil  wants  to  go  to  Eton,  but  I 
know  what  Eton  is.  Poor  fellow!  his  feelings  might  b«  hurt 
there,  if  others  are  as  sceptical  as  yourself.  I  suppose  my 
old  friends  will  not  be  less  civil  now  I  have  £20,000  a  year; 
and  as  for  the  society  of  women,  between  you  and  me,  I  don't 
care  a  rush  for  any  woman  but  Catherine,  —  poor  Katty  I  " 

"Well,  you  are  the  best  judge  of  your  own  affairs.  You 
don't  misinterpret  my  motives?" 

"  My  dear  Bob,  no.  I  am  quite  sensible  how  kind  it  is  in 
you,  — a  man  of  your  starch  habits  and  strict  views,  — com- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  '  29 

ing  here  to  pay  a  mark  of  respect  to  Kate  [Mr.  Kobert  turned 
uneasily  in  his  chair]  even  before  you  knew  of  the  private 
marriage;  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  blame  you  for  never  having 
done  it  before.  You  did  quite  right  to  try  your  chance  with 
my  uncle," 

Mr.  Eobert  turned  in  his  chair  again,  still  more  uneasily, 
and  cleared  his  voice  as  if  to  speak.  But  Philip  tossed  off  his 
wine,  and  proceeded,  without  heeding  his  brother,  — 

"And  though  the  poor  old  man  does  not  seem  to  have  liked 
you  the  better  for  consulting  his  scruples,  yet  we  must  make 
up  for  the  partiality  of  his  will.  Let  me  see  —  what  with 
your  wife's  fortune,  you  muster  £2,000  a  year?" 

"Only  £1,500,  Philip,  and  Arthur's  education  is  growing 
expensive.  Kext  year  he  goes  to  college.  He  is  certainly 
very  clever,  and  I  have  great  hopes  —  " 

"That  he  will  do  honour  to  us  all  —  so  have  I.  He  is  a 
noble  young  fellow,  and  I  think  my  Philip  may  find  a  great 
deal  to  learn  from  him.  Phil  is  a  sad,  idle  dog,  but  with  a 
devil  of  a  spirit,  and  sharp  as  a  needle.  I  wish  you  could  see 
him  ride.  Well,  to  return  to  Arthur.  Don't  trouble  yourself 
about  his  education,  — that  shall  be  my  care.  He  shall  go  to 
Christ  Church,  —  a  gentleman-commoner,  of  course ;  and 
■when  he  is  of  age  we  '11  get  him  into  Parliament.  Now  for 
yourself,  Bob.  I  shall  sell  the  town-house  in  Berkeley 
Square,  and  whatever  it  brings  you  shall  have.  Besides 
that,  I'll  add  £1,500  a  year  to  your  £1,500, —so  that's 
said  and  done.  Pshaw!  brothers  should  be  brothers.  Let's 
come  out  and  play  with  the  boys !  " 

The  two  Beauforts  stepped  through  the  open  casement  into 
the  lawn. 

"You  look  pale,  Bob,  — all  you  London  fellows  do.  As  for 
me,  I  feel  as  strong  as  a  horse ;  much  better  than  when  I  was 
one  of  your  gay  dogs  stra5dng  loose  about  the  town!  'Gad!  I 
have  never  had  a  moment's  ill  health,  except  from  a  fall  now 
and  then.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  live  forever,  and  that 's  the 
reason  why  I  could  never  make  a  will." 

"Have  you  never,  then,  made  your  will?" 

"  Never  as  yet.    Faith,  till  now  I  had  little  enough  to  leave ; 


30  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

but  now  that  all  this  great  Beaufort  property  is  at  my  own 
disposal,  I  must  think  of  Kate's  jointure.     By  Jove !  now  I 

speak  of  it,  I  will  ride  to  to-morrow,  and  consult  the 

lawyer  there  both  about  the  will  and  the  marriage.  You  will 
stay  for  the  wedding?  " 

"Why,   I  imist   go    into shire   to-morroAV    evening,   to 

place  Arthur  with  his  tutor.  But  I  '11  return  for  the  wedding, 
if  you  particularly  wish  it;  only  Mrs.  Beaufort  is  a  woman 
of  very  strict  —  " 

"I  do  particularly  wish  it,"  interrupted  Philip,  gravely; 
"for  I  desire,  for  Catherine's  sake,  that  you,  my  sole  surviv- 
ing relation,  may  not  seem  to  withhold  your  countenance  from 
an  act  of  justice  to  her.  And  as  for  your  wife,  I  fancy  £1,500 
a  year  would  reconcile  her  to  my  marrying  out  of  the 
Penitentiary." 

Mr.  Eobert  bowed  his  head,  coughed  huskily,  and  said,  "  I 
appreciate  your  generous  affection,  Philip." 

The  next  morning,  while  the  elder  parties  were  still  over 
the  breakfast-table,  the  young  people  were  in  the  grounds.  It 
was  a  lovely  day,  one  of  the  last  of  the  luxuriant  August,  and 
Arthur,  as  he  looked  round,  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more 
beautiful  place.  It  was,  indeed,  just  the  spot  to  captivate  a 
youthful  and  susceptible  fancy.  The  village  of  Fernside, 
though  in  one  of  the  counties  adjoining  Middlesex,  and  as 
near  to  London  as  the  owner's  passionate  pursuits  of  the  field 
would  permit,  was  yet  as  rural  and  sequestered  as  if  a  hun- 
dred miles  distant  from  the  smoke  of  the  huge  city.  Though 
the  dwelling  was  called  a  cottage,  Philip  had  enlarged  the 
original  modest  building  into  a  villa  of  some  pretensions.  On 
either  side  a  graceful  and  well-proportioned  portico  stretched 
verandas,  covered  with  roses  and  clematis;  to  the  right  ex- 
tended a  range  of  costly  conservatories,  terminating  in  vistas 
of  trellis-work  which  formed  those  elegant  alleys  called  rosa- 
ries, and  served  to  screen  the  more  useful  gardens  from  view. 
The  lawn,  smooth  and  even,  was  studded  with  American  plants 
and  shrubs  in  flower,  and  bounded  on  one  side  by  a  small  lake, 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  which  limes  and  cedars  threw  their 
shadows  over  the  clear  waves;  on  the  other  side  a  light  fence 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  31 

separated  the  grounds  from  a  large  paddock,  in  which  three  or 
four  hunters  grazed  in  indolent  enjoyment.  It  was  one  of 
those  cottages  which  bespeak  the  ease  and  luxury  not  often 
found  in  more  ostentatious  mansions,  —  an  abode  which  at 
sixteen  the  visitor  contemplates  with  vague  notions  of  poetry 
and  love ;  which  at  forty  he  might  think  dull  and  d — d  expen- 
sive; which  at  sixty  he  would  pronounce  to  be  damp  in  winter 
and  full  of  earwigs  in  the  summer.  Master  Philip  was  lean- 
ing on  his  gun ;  Master  Sidney  was  chasing  a  peacock  butter- 
fly; Arthur  was  silently  gazing  on  the  shining  lake  and  the 
still  foliage  that  drooped  over  its  surface.  In  the  counte- 
nance of  this  young  man  there  was  something  that  excited  a 
certain  interest.  He  was  less  handsome  than  Philip,  but  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  more  prepossessing.  There  was 
something  of  pride  in  the  forehead,  but  of  good  nature,  not 
unmixed  with  irresolution  and  weakness,  in  the  curves  of  the 
mouth.  He  was  more  delicate  of  frame  than  Philip,  and  the 
colour  of  his  complexion  was  not  that  of  a  robust  constitution. 
His  movements  were  graceful  and  self-possessed,  and  he  had 
his  father's  sweetness  of  voice. 

"  This  is  really  beavitiful !     I  envy  you,  cousin  Philip. " 

"Has  not  your  father  got  a  country-house?" 

"No;  we  live  either  in  London  or  at  some  hot,  crowded 
watering-place. " 

"  Yes ;  this  is  very  nice  during  the  shooting  and  hunting 
season.  But  my  old  nurse  says  we  shall  have  a  much  finer 
place  now.  I  liked  this  very  well  till  I  saw  Lord  Belville's 
place ;  but  it  is  very  unpleasant  not  to  have  the  finest  house 
in  the  county.  Atct  Ccesar  aut  nullus, — that's  my  motto. 
Ah!  do  you  see  that  swallow?    I  '11  bet  you  a  guinea  I  hit  it." 

"No,  poor  thing!  don't  hurt  it."  But  ere  the  remonstrance 
was  uttered,  the  bird  lay  quivering  on  the  ground. 

"It  is  just  September,  and  one  must  keep  one's  hand  in," 
said  Philip,  as  he  reloaded  his  gun. 

To  Arthur  this  action  seemed  a  wanton  cruelty.  It  was 
rather  the  wanton  recklessness  which  belongs  to  a  wild  boy 
accustomed  to  gratify  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  — the  reck- 
lessness which  is  not  cruelty  in  the  boy,  but  which  prosperity 


32  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

may  pamper  into  cruelty  in  the  man.  And  scarce  had  he 
reloaded  his  gun  before  the  neigh  of  a  young  colt  came  from 
the  neighbouring  paddock,  and  Philip  bounded  to  the  fence. 
"He  calls  me,  poor  fellow;  you  shall  see  him  feed  from  my 
hand.     Run  in  for  a  piece  of  bread,  —  a  large  piece,  Sidney." 

The  boy  and  the  animal  seemed  to  understand  each  other. 
"I  see  you  don't  like  horses,"  he  said  to  Arthur.  "As  for 
me,  I  love  dogs,  horses,  — every  dumb  creature." 

"Except  swallows!  "  said  Arthur,  with  a  half  smile,  and  a 
little  surprised  at  the  inconsistency  of  the  boast. 

"Oh!  that  is  sport,  — all  fair.  It  is  not  to  hurt  the  swal- 
low, —  it  is  to  obtain  skill,"  said  Philip,  colouring;  and  then, 
as  if  not  quite  easy  with  his  own  definition,  he  turned  away 
abruptly. 

"This  is  dull  work;  suppose  we  fish.  By  Jove!"  (he  had 
caught  his  father's  expletive)  "that  blockhead  has  put  the 
tent  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  lake,  after  all.  Holla,  you, 
sir!"  and  the  unhappy  gardener  looked  up  from  his  flower- 
beds, "what  ails  you?  I  have  a  great  mind  to  tell  my  father 
of  you,  —  you  grow  stupider  every  day.  I  told  you  to  put  the 
tent  under  the  lime-trees." 

"We  could  not  manage  it,  sir;  the  boughs  were  in  the  way." 

"And  why  did  you  not  cut  the  boughs,  blockhead?" 

"I  did  not  dare  do  so,  sir,  without  master's  orders,"  said 
the  man,  doggedly. 

"My  orders  are  sufi&cient,  I  should  think;  so  none  of  your 
impertinence,"  cried  Philip,  with  a  raised  colour;  and  lifting 
his  hand,  in  which  he  held  his  ramrod,  he  shook  it  menacingly 
over  the  gardener's  head.     "  I  've  a  great  mind  to  —  " 

"What's  the  matter,  Philip?"  cried  the  good-humoured 
voice  of  his  father.     "Fie!" 

"This  fellow  does  not  mind  what  I  say,  sir." 

"  I  did  not  like  to  cut  the  boughs  of  the  lime-trees  without 
your  orders,  sir,"  said  the  gardener. 

"  No,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  cut  them.  You  should  consult 
me  there.  Master  Philip;"  and  the  father  shook  him  by  the 
collar  with  a  good-natured,  and  affectionate,  but  rough  sort  of 
caress. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  33 

"  Be  quiet,  Father !  "  said  the  boy,  petulantly  and  proudly ; 
"or,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice,  but  one  which  showed  emo- 
tion, "  my  cousin  may  think  you  mean  less  kindly  than  you 
always  do,  sir." 

The  father  was  touched.  "Go  and  cut  the  lime-boughs, 
John;  and  always  do  as  Mr.  Philip  tells  you." 

The  mother  was  behind,  and  she  sighed  audibly.  "Ah I 
dearest,  I  fear  you  will  spoil  him." 

"Is  he  not  your  son;  and  do  we  not  owe  him  the  more 
respect  for  having  hitherto  allowed  others  to  —  " 

He  stopped,  and  the  mother  could  say  no  more.  And  thus 
it  was  that  this  boy  of  powerful  character  and  strong  passions 
had,  from  motives  the  most  amiable,  been  pampered  from  the 
darling  into  the  despot. 

"  And  now,  Kate,  I  will,  as  I  told  you  last  night,  ride  over 

to and  fix  the  earliest  day  for  our  public  marriage.     I 

will  ask  the  lawyer  to  dine  here,  to  talk  about  the  proper 
steps  for  proving  the  private  one." 

"Will  that  be  difficult?"  asked  Catherine,  with  natural 
anxiety. 

"  No,  —  for  if  you  remember,  I  had  the  precaution  to  get  an 
examined  copy  of  the  register;  otherwise,  I  own  to  you,  I 
should  have  been  alarmed.  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of 
Smith.  I  heard  some  time  since  from  his  father  that  he  had 
left  the  colony ;  and  (I  never  told  you  before,  —  it  would  have 
made  you  uneasy)  once,  a  few  years  ago,  when  my  uncle  again 
got  it  into  his  head  that  we  might  be  married,  I  was  afraid 
poor  Caleb's  successor  might  by  chance  betray  us.     So  I  went 

over  to  A myself,  being  near  it  when  I  was  staying  with 

Lord  C ,  in  order  to  see  how  far  it  might  be  necessary  to 

secure  the  parson ;  and,  only  think !  I  found  an  accident  had 
happened  to  the  register.  So  as  the  clergyman  could  know 
nothing,  I  kept  my  own  counsel.  How  lucky  I  have  the  copy! 
No  doubt  the  lawyer  will  set  all  to  rights ;  and  while  I  am 
making  the  settlements,  I  may  as  well  make  my  will.  I  have 
plenty  for  both  boys,  but  the  dark  one  must  be  the  heir.  Does 
he  not  look  born  to  be  an  eldest  son?  " 

"Ah,  Philip!" 

8 


34  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

"  Pshaw !  one  don't  die  the  sooner  for  making  a  will.  Have 
I  the  air  of  a  man  in  a  consumption?  "  and  the  sturdy  sports- 
man glanced  complacently  at  the  strength  and  symmetry  of 
his  manly  limbs.  "Come,  Phil,  let's  go  to  the  stables. 
Now,  Robert,  I  will  show  you  what  is  better  worth  seeing 
than  those  miserable  flower-beds."  So  saying,  Mr.  Beaufort 
led  the  way  to  the  courtyard  at  the  back  of  the  cottage. 
Catherine  and  Sidney  remained  on  the  lawn;  the  rest  fol- 
lowed the  host.  The  grooms,  of  whom  Beaufort  was  the  idol, 
hastened  to  show  how  well  the  horses  had  thriven  in  his 
absence. 

"Do  see  how  Brown  Bess  has  come  on,  sir!  but,  to  be  sure, 
Master  Philip  keeps  her  in  exercise.  Ah,  sir,  he  will  be  as 
good  a  rider  as  your  honour,  one  of  these  days." 

"He  ought  to  be  a  better,  Tom;  for  I  think  he'll  never 
have  my  weight  to  carry.  Well,  saddle  Brown  Bess  for  Mr. 
Philip.  What  horse  shall  I  take?  Ah!  here  's  my  old  friend, 
Puppet!" 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  to  Puppet,  sir;  he's  off  his 
feed,  and  turned  sulky.  I  tried  him  over  the  bar  yesterday; 
but  he  was  quite  restive  like." 

"  The  devil  he  was !  So,  so,  old  boy,  you  shall  go  over  the 
six-barred  gate  to-day,  or  we'll  know  why;"  and  ]\[r.  Beau- 
fort patted  the  sleek  neck  of  his  favourite  hunter.  "  Put  the 
saddle  on  him,  Tom." 

"  Yes,  your  honour.  I  sometimes  think  he  is  hurt  in  the 
loins  somehow,  —  he  don't  take  to  his  leaps  kindly,  and  he 
always  tries  to  bite  when  we  bridles  him.     Be  quiet,  sir! " 

"Only  his  airs,"  said  Philip.  "I  did  not  know  this,  or  I 
would  have  taken  him  over  the  gate.  Why  did  not  you  tell 
me,  Tom?" 

"Lord  love  you,  sir!  because  you  have  such  a  spurret;  and 
if  anything  had  come  to  you  —  " 

"  Quite  right ;  you  are  not  weight  enough  for  Puppet,  my 
boy,  and  he  never  did  like  any  one  to  back  him  but  myself. 
WTtiat  say  you,  brother,  will  you  ride  with  us?" 

"No,    I   must   go  to   to-day   with   Arthur,     I   have 

engaged  the  post-horses  at  two  o'clock;  but  I  shall  be  with 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  35 

you  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  You  see  liis  tutor  expects 
him;  and  as  he  is  backward  in  his  mathematics,  he  has  no 
time  to  lose." 

"Well,  then,  good-by,  nephew!"  and  Beaufort  slipped  a 
pocketbook  into  the  boy's  hand.  "Tush!  whenever  you 
want  money,  don't  trouble  your  father, — write  tome.  We 
shall  be  always  glad  to  see  you ;  and  you  must  teach  Philip  to 
like  his  book  a  little  better,  — eh,  Phil?  " 

"No,  Father;  /  shall  be  rich  enough  to  do  without  books," 
said  Philip,  rather  coarsely;  but  then  observing  the  height- 
ened colour  of  his  cousin,  he  went  up  to  him,  and  with  a  gen- 
erous impulse  said,  "Arthur,  you  admired  this  gun;  pray 
accept  it.  Nay,  don't  be  shy,  —  I  can  have  as  many  as  I  like 
for  the  asking;  you're  not  so  well  off,  you  know." 

The  intention  was  kind,  but  the  manner  was  so  patronizing 
that  Arthur  felt  offended.  He  put  back  the  gun,  and  said 
dryly,  "I  shall  have  no  occasion  for  the  gun,  thank  you." 

If  Arthur  was  offended  by  the  offer,  Philip  was  much  more 
offended  by  the  refusal.  "As  you  like;  I  hate  pride,"  said 
he ;  and  he  gave  the  gun  to  the  groom  as  he  vaulted  into  his 
saddle  with  the  lightness  of  a  young  Mercury.  "Come, 
Father!" 

Mr.  Beaufort  had  now  mounted  his  favourite  hunter, — a 
large,  powerful  horse  well  known  for  its  prowess  in  the  field. 
The  rider  trotted  him  once  or  twice  through  the  spacious  yard. 

"Nonsense,  Tom;  no  more  hurt  in  the  loins  than  I  am. 
Open  that  gate ;  we  will  go  across  the  paddock,  and  take  the 
gate  yonder,  — the  old  six-bar,  — eh,  Phil?" 

"Capital!  — to  be  sure!" 

The  gate  was  opened.  The  grooms  stood  watchful  to  see 
the  leap,  and  a  kindred  curiosity  arrested  Eobert  Beaufort 
and  his  son. 

How  well  they  looked,  —  those  two  horsemen !  the  ease, 
lightness,  spirit  of  the  one,  with  the  fine-limbed  and  fiery 
steed  that  literally  "bounded  beneath  him  as  a  barb,"  — 
seemingly  as  gay  a?  ardent,  and  as  haughty  as  the  boy -rider ; 
and  the  manly  and  almost  herculean  form  of  the  elder  Beau- 
fort, which,  from  the  buoyancy  of  its  movements  and  the 


^b  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

supple  grace  that  belongs  to  the  perfect  mastership  of  any 
athletic  art,  possessed  an  elegance  and  dignity,  especially  on 
horseback,  which  rarely  accompanies  proportions  equally 
sturdy  and  robust.  There  was  indeed  something  knightly 
and  chivalrous  in  the  bearing  of  the  elder  Beaufort,  —  in  his 
handsome  aquiline  features,  the  erectness  of  his  mien,  the 
very  wave  of  his  hand,  as  he  spurred  from  the  yard. 

"  What  a  fine-looking  fellow  my  uncle  is ! "  said  Arthur, 
with  involuntary  admiration. 

"Ay,  an  excellent  life,  — amazingly  strong!"  returned  the 
pale  father,  with  a  slight  sigh. 

"Philip,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  as  they  cantered  across  the 
paddock,  "  I  think  the  gate  is  too  much  for  you.  I  will  just 
take  Puppet  over,  and  then  we  will  oj^en  it  for  you." 

"Pooh,  my  dear  father!  you  don't  know  how  I  'm 
improved !  " 

And  slackening  the  rein,  and  touching  the  side  of  his 
horse,  the  young  rider  darted  forward  and  cleared  the  gate, 
which  was  of  no  common  height,  with  an  ease  that  extorted  a 
loud  "  bravo  "  from  the  proud  father. 

"Now,  Puppet,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  spurring  his  own  horse. 
The  animal  cantered  towards  the  gate,  and  then  suddenly 
turned  round  with  an  impatient  and  angry  snort.  "For 
shame.  Puppet !  for  shame,  old  boy ! "  said  the  sportsman, 
wheeling  him  again  to  the  barrier.  The  horse  shook  his 
head,  as  if  in  remonstrance ;  but  the  spur  vigorously  applied 
showed  him  that  his  master  would  not  listen  to  his  mute  rea- 
sonings. He  bounded  forward,  made  at  the  gate,  struck  his 
hoofs  against  the  top  bar,  fell  forward,  and  threw  his  rider 
head  foremost  on  the  road  beyond.  The  horse  rose  instantly ; 
not  so  the  master.  The  son  dismounted,  alarmed  and  terri- 
fied. His  father  was  speechless !  and  blood  gushed  from  the 
mouth  and  nostrils,  as  the  head  drooped  heavily  on  the  boy's 
breast.  The  bystanders  had  witnessed  the  fall.  They  crowded 
to  the  spot;  they  took  the  fallen  man  from  the  weak  arms  of 
the  son ;  the  head  groom  examined  him  with  the  eye  of  one 
who  had  picked  up  science  from  his  experience  in  such 
casualties. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  37 

"Speak,  brother!  where  are  you  hurt?"  exclaimed  Eobert 
Beaufort. 

"He  will  never  speak  more! "  said  the  groom,  bursting  into 
tears.     "  His  neck  is  broken !  " 

"Send  for  the  nearest  surgeon,"  cried  Mr.  Eobert.  "Good 
God!  boy!  don't  mount  that  devilish  horse!  " 

But  Arthur  had  already  leaped  on  the  unhappy  steed,  which 
had  been  the  cause  of  this  appalling  affliction.  "Which 
way?" 

"Straight  on  to  ,  only  two  miles, — every  one  knows 

Mr.  Powis's  house.     God  bless  you!  "  said  the  groom. 

Arthur  vanished. 

"Lift  him  carefully,  and  take  him  to  the  house,"  said  Mr. 
Robert.  "My  poor  brother!  my  dear  brother!  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  cry,  a  single,  shrill,  heart-breaking 
cry ;  and  Philip  fell  senseless  to  the  ground. 

No  one  heeded  him  at  that  hour ;  no  one  heeded  the  father- 
less BASTARD.  "Gently,  gently,"  said  Mr.  Eobert,  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  servants  and  their  load;  and  he  then  muttered  to 
himself,  and  his  sallow  cheek  grew  bright,  and  his  breath 
came  short,  "He  has  made  no  will!  he  never  made  a  will." 


CHAPTEE  V. 

Constance.    O  boy,  then  where  art  thou  "^ 

.  .  .  What  becomes  of  me?  —  King  John. 

It  was  three  days  after  the  death  of  Philip  Beaufort,  —  for 
the  surgeon  arrived  only  to  confirm  the  judgment  of  the 
groom.  In  the  drawing-room  of  the  cottage,  the  windows 
closed,  lay  the  body,  in  its  coffin,  the  lid  not  yet  nailed 
down.  There,  prostrate  on  the  floor,  tearless,  speechless, 
was  the  miserable  Catherine;  poor  Sidney,  too  young  to 
comprehend  all  his  loss,   sobbing  at  her  side;    while  Philip 


38  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

ax)art,  seated  beside  the  coffin,  gazed  abstractedly  on  tbat 
cold  rigid  face,  which  had  never  known  one  frown  for  his 
boyish  follies. 

In  another  room,  that  had  been  appropriated  to  the  late 
owner,  called  his  study,  sat  Robert  Beaufort,  Everything  in 
this  room  spoke  of  the  deceased.  Partially  separated  from 
the  rest  of  the  house,  it  communicated  by  a  winding  staircase 
with  a  chamber  above,  to  which  Philip  had  been  wont  to 
betake  himself  whenever  he  returned  late  and  over-exhila- 
rated from  some  rural  feast  crowning  a  hard  day's  hunt. 
Above  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  bureau  of  Dutch  workmanship 
(which  Philip  had  picked  up  at  a  sale  in  the  earlier  years  of 
his  marriage)  was  a  portrait  of  Catherine  taken  in  the  bloom 
of  her  youth.  On  a  peg  on  the  door  that  led  to  the  staircase, 
still  hung  his  rough  driving  coat.  The  window  commanded 
the  view  of  the  paddock  in  which  the  worn-out  hunter  or  the 
unbroken  colt  grazed  at  will.  Around  the  walls  of  the 
"  study  "  —  a  strange  misnomer !  —  hung  prints  of  celebrated 
fox-hunts  and  renowned  steeple-chases;  guns,  fishing-rods, 
and  foxes'  brushes,  ranged  with  a  sportsman's  neatness,  sup- 
plied the  place  of  books.  On  the  mantelpiece  lay  a  cigar- 
case,  a  well-worn  volume  on  the  Veterinary  Art,  and  the  last 
number  of  the  "Sporting  Magazine."  And  in  the  room  thus 
witnessing  of  the  hardy,  masculine,  rural  life  that  had  passed 
away,  sallow,  stooping,  town-worn,  sat,  I  say,  Eobert  Beau- 
fort, the  heir-at-law,  —  alone ;  for  the  very  day  of  the  death 
he  had  remanded  his  son  home  with  the  letter  that  announced 
to  his  wife  the  change  in  their  fortunes,  and  directed  her  to 
send  his  lawyer  post-haste  to  the  house  of  death.  The  bureau 
and  the  drawers  and  the  boxes  which  contained  the  papers  of 
the  deceased  were  open;  their  contents  had  been  ransacked; 
no  certificate  of  the  private  marriage,  no  hint  of  such  an 
event,  — not  a  paper  found  to  signify  the  last  wishes  of  the 
rich  dead  man. 

He  had  died,  and  made  no  sign.  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort's 
countenance  was  still  and  composed. 

A  knock  at  the  door  was  heard;  the  lawyer  entered. 

*'  Sir,  the  undertakers  are  here,  and  Mr.  Greaves  has  ordered 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  39 

the  bells  to  be  rung.  At  three  o'clock  he  will  read  the 
service." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Blackwell,  for  taking  these  melancholy 
offices  on  yourself.  My  poor  brother!  it  is  so  sudden!  But 
the  funeral,  you  say,  ought  to  take  place  to-day?" 

"The  weather  is  so  warm,"  said  the  lawyer,  wiping  his 
forehead.     As  he  spoke,  the  death-bell  was  heard. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"It  would  have  been  a  terrible  shock  to  Mrs.  Morton  if 
she  had  been  his  wife,"  observed  Mr.  Blackwell;  "but  I 
suppose  persons  of  that  kind  have  very  little  feeling.  I 
must  soy  that  it  was  fortunate  for  the  family  that  the  event 
hai)pened  before  Mr.  Beaufort  was  wheedled  into  so  improper 
a  marriage." 

"  It  was  fortunate,  Blackwell.  Have  you  ordered  the  post- 
horses?     I  shall  start  immediately  after  the  funeral." 

"What  is  to  be  done  with  the  cottage,  sir?" 

"You  may  advertise  it  for  sale." 

"And  Mrs.  Morton  and  the  boys?" 

"  Hum !  we  will  consider.  She  was  a  tradesman's  daughter. 
I  think  I  ought  to  provide  for  her  suitably,  eh?" 

"It  is  more  than  the  world  could  expect  from  you,  sir;  it  is 
very  different  from  a  wife." 

"Oh,  very!  very  much  so,  indeed!  Just  ring  for  a  lighted 
candle,  we  will  seal  up  these  boxes.  And  — I  think  I  could 
take  a  sandwich.     Poor  Philip !  " 

The  funeral  was  over,  the  dead  shovelled  away.  What  a 
strange  thing  it  does  seem,  that  that  very  form  which  we 
prized  so  charily,  for  which  we  prayed  the  winds  to  be  gentle, 
which  we  lapped  from  the  cold  in  our  arms,  from  whose  foot- 
step we  would  have  removed  a  stone,  should  be  suddenly  thrust 
out  of  sight,  —  an  abomination  that  the  earth  must  not  look 
upon,  —  a  despicable  loathsomeness,  to  be  concealed  and  to 
be  forgotten!  And  this  same  composition  of  bone  and  muscle 
that  was  yesterday  so  strong,  which  men  respected  and  women 
loved  and  children  clung  to,  to-day  so  lamentably  powerless, 
unable  to  defend  or  protect  those  who  lay  nearest  to  its  heart ; 
its  riches  wrested  from  it,  its  wishes  spat  upon,  its  influence 


40  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

expiring  with  its  last  sigh!  A  breath  from  its  lips  making 
all  that  mighty  difference  between  what  it  was  and  what  it  is ! 

The  post-horses  were  at  the  door  as  the  funeral  procession 
returned  to  the  house. 

Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort  bowed  slightly  to  Mrs.  jNIorton,  and 
said,  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  still  before  his  eyes,  — 

"I  will  write  to  you  in  a  few  days,  ma'am;  you  will  find 
that  I  shall  not  forget  you.  The  cottage  will  be  sold ;  but  we 
sha 'n't  hurry  you.  Good-bj^,  ma'am;  good-by,  my  boys;" 
and  he  patted  his  nephews  on  the  liead. 

Philip  winced  aside,  and  scowled  haughtily  at  liis  uncle, 
who  muttered  to  himself,  "  That  boy  will  come  to  no  good ! " 
Little  Sidney  put  his  hand  into  the  rich  man's,  and  looked  up 
pleadingly  into  his  face.  "Can't  you  say  something  pleasant 
to  poor  mamma,  Uncle  Robert?" 

Mr.  Beaufort  hemmed  huskily,  and  entered  the  hritska,  — 
it  had  been  his  brother's;  the  lawyer  followed,  and  they  drove 
away. 

A  week  after  the  funeral,  Philip  stole  from  the  house  into 
the  conservatory  to  gather  some  fruit  for  his  mother;  she  had 
scarcely  touched  food  since  Beaufort's  death.  She  was  worn 
to  a  shadow ;  her  hair  had  turned  gray.  Now  she  had  at  last 
found  tears,  and  she  wept  noiselessly  but  unceasingly. 

The  boy  had  plucked  some  grapes,  and  placed  them  carefully 
in  his  basket.  He  was  about  to  select  a  nectarine  that  seemed 
riper  than  the  rest,  when  his  hand  was  roughly  seized,  and 
the  gruff  voice  of  John  Green,  the  gardener,  exclaimed,  — 

"What  are  you  about.  Master  Philip!  you  must  not  touch 
them  'ere  fruit! " 

"How  dare  you,  fellow!  "  cried  the  young  gentleman,  in  a 
tone  of  equal  astonishment  and  wrath, 

"None  of  your  airs.  Master  Philip!  What  I  mean  is,  that 
some  great  folks  are  coming  to  look  at  the  place  to-morrow, 
and  I  won't  have  my  show  of  fruit  spoiled  by  being  pawed 
about  by  the  like  of  you;  so,  that 's  plain.  Master  Philip!  " 

The  boy  grew  very  pale,  but  remained  silent.  The  gar- 
dener, delighted  to  retaliate  the  insolence  he  had  received, 
continued,  — 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  41 

"You  need  not  go  for  to  look  so  spiteful,  master;  you  are 
not  the  great  man  you  thought  you  were ;  you  are  nobody  now, 
and  so  you  will  find  ere  long.  So,  march  out,  if  you  please :  I 
wants  to  lock  up  the  glass." 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  the  lad  roughly  by  the  arm;  but 
Philip,  the  most  irascible  of  mortals,  was  strong  for  his 
years,  and  fearless  as  a  young  lion.  He  caught  up  a  watering- 
pot,  which  the  gardener  had  deposited  while  he  expostulated 
with  his  late  tyrant,  and  struck  the  man  across  the  face  with 
it  so  violently  and  so  suddenly  that  he  fell  back  over  the  beds, 
and  the  glass  crackled  and  shivered  under  him.  Philip  did 
not  wait  for  the  foe  to  recover  his  equilibrium ;  but,  taking 
up  his  grapes,  and  possessing  himself  quietly  of  the  disputed 
nectarine,  quitted  the  spot,  and  the  gardener  did  not  think  it 
prudent  to  pursue  him.  To  boys  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, —  boys  who  have  buffeted  their  way  through  a  scold- 
ing nursery,  a  wrangling  family,  or  a  public  school, — there 
would  have  been  nothing  in  this  squabble  to  dwell  on  the 
memory  or  vibrate  on  the  nerves,  after  the  first  burst  of  pas- 
sion; but  to  Philip  Beaufort  it  was  an  era  in  life.  It  was  the 
first  insult  he  had  ever  received;  it  was  his  initiation  into 
that  changed,  rough,  and  terrible  career,  to  which  the  spoiled 
darling  of  vanity  and  love  was  henceforth  condemned.  His 
pride  and  his  self-esteem  had  incurred  a  fearful  shock.  He 
entered  the  house,  and  a  sickness  came  over  him;  his  limbs 
trembled;  he  sat  down  in  the  hall,  and  placing  the  fruit  beside 
him,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  wept.  Those  were 
not  the  tears  of  a  boy,  drawn  from  a  shallow  source;  they 
were  the  burning,  agonizing,  reluctant  tears  that  men  shed, 
wrung  from  the  heart  as  if  it  were  its  blood.  He  had  never 
been  sent  to  school  lest  he  should  meet  with  mortification ;  he 
had  had  various  tutors,  trained  to  show  rather  than  to  exact 
respect,  —  one  succeeding  another,  at  his  own  whim  and 
caprice.  His  natural  quickness,  and  a  very  strong,  hard, 
inquisitive  turn  of  mind,  had  enabled  him,  however,  to  pick 
up  more  knowledge,  though  of  a  desultory  and  miscellaneous 
nature,  than  boys  of  his  age  generally  possess;  and  his  rov- 
ing, independent,  out-of-door  existence  had  served  to  ripen 


42  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

his  understanding.  He  had  certainly,  in  spite  of  every  pre- 
caution, arrived  at  some,  though  not  very  distinct,  notion  of 
his  peculiar  position;  but  none  of  its  inconveniences  had 
visited  him  till  that  day.  He  began  now  to  turn  his  eyes  to 
the  future;  and  vague  and  dark  forebodings  —  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  shelter,  the  protector,  the  station,  he  had  lost  in 
his  father's  death  —  crept  coldly  over  him.  While  thus  mus- 
ing, a  ring  was  heard  at  the  bell ;  he  lifted  his  head ;  it  was 
the  postman  with  a  letter.  Philip  hastily  rose,  and  averting 
his  face,  on  which  the  tears  were  not  dried,  took  the  letter ; 
and  then,  snatching  up  his  little  basket  of  fruit,  repaired  to 
his  mother's  room. 

The  shutters  were  half  closed  on  the  bright  day  —  oh,  what 
a  mockery  is  there  in  the  smile  of  the  happy  sun  when  it 
shines  on  the  wretched!  Mrs.  Morton  sat,  or  rather  crouched, 
in  a  distant  corner,  her  streaming  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  — 
listless,  drooping,  a  very  image  of  desolate  woe;  and  Sidney 
was  weaving  flower-chains  at  her  feet. 

"  Mamma !  Mother ! "  whispered  Philip,  as  he  threw  hig 
arms  round  her  neck ;  "  look  up !  look  up !  my  heart  breaks  to 
see  you.  Do  taste  this  fruit :  you  will  die  too,  if  you  go  on 
thus;  and  what  will  become  of  us  —  of  Sidney?" 

Mrs.  Morton  did  look  up  vaguely  into  his  face,  and  strove 
to  smile. 

"  See,  too,  I  have  brought  you  a  letter,  —  perhaps  good 
news;  shall  I  break  the  seal?" 

Mrs.  Morton  shook  her  head  gently,  and  took  the  letter  — 
alas !  how  different  from  that  one  which  Sidney  had  placed  in 
her  hands  not  two  short  weeks  since!  it  was  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort's handwriting.  She  shuddered,  and  laid  it  down;  and 
then  there  suddenly,  and  for  the  first  time,  flashed  across  her 
the  sense  of  her  strange  position,  the  dread  of  the  future. 
What  were  her  sons  to  be  henceforth?  What  herself? 
Whatever  the  sanctity  of  her  marriage,  the  law  might  fail 
her.  At  the  disposition  of  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  the  fate 
of  three  lives  might  depend.  She  gasped  for  breath,  again 
took  up  the  letter,  and  hurried  over  the  contents}  they  ran 
thus : — 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  43 

Dear  Madam,  —  Knowing  that  you  must  naturally  be  anxious  as  to 
the  future  prospects  of  your  children  and  yourself,  left  by  my  poor 
brother  destitute  of  all  provision,  I  take  the  earliest  opportunity  whicli 
it  seems  to  me  that  propriety  and  decorum  allow  to  apprise  you  of  my 
intentions.  I  need  not  say  that,  properly  speaking,  you  can  have  no 
kind  of  claim  upon  the  relations  of  my  late  brother  ;  nor  will  I  hurt 
vour  feelings  by  those  moral  retlections  which  at  this  season  of  sorrow 
cannot,  I  hope,  fail  involuntarily  to  force  themselves  uj)on  you.  "With- 
out more  than  this  mere  allusion  to  your  peculiar  connection  with  my 
brother,  I  may  however  be  permitted  to  add  that  that  connection  tended 
very  materially  to  separate  him  from  the  legitimate  branches  of  his 
family ;  and  in  consulting  with  them  as  to  a  provision  for  you  and  your 
children,  I  find  that,  besides  scruples  that  are  to  be  respected,  some 
natural  degree  of  soreness  exists  upon  their  minds.  Out  of  regard, 
however,  to  my  poor  brother  (though  I  saw  very  little  of  him  of  late 
years),  I  am  willing  to  waive  those  feehngs  which,  as  a  father  and  a 
husband,  you  may  conceive  that  I  share  with  the  rest  of  my  family. 
You  will  probably  now  decide  on  living  with  some  of  your  own  relations; 
and  that  you  may  not  be  entirely  a  burden  to  them,  I  beg  to  say  that  I 
shaU  allow  you  a  hundred  a  year,  paid,  if  you  prefer  it,  quarterly.  You 
may  also  select  such  articles  of  linen  and  plate  as  you  require  for  your 
own  use.  With  regard  to  your  sons,  I  have  no  objection  to  place  them 
at  a  grammar-school,  and  at  a  proper  age  to  apprentice  them  to  any 
trade  suitable  to  their  future  station,  in  the  choice  of  which  your  own 
family  can  give  you  the  best  advice.  If  they  conduct  themselves  pro- 
perly, they  may  always  depend  on  my  protection.  I  do  not  wish  to 
hurry  your  movements  ;  but  it  will  probably  be  painful  to  you  to  remain 
longer  than  you  can  help  in  a  place  crowded  with  unpleasant  recollec- 
tions ;  and  as  the  cottage  is  to  be  sold,  —  indeed,  my  brother-in-law. 
Lord  Lilburne,  thinks  it  would  suit  him,  —  you  will  be  liable  to  the  in- 
terruption of  strangers  to  see  it,  and  your  prolonged  residence  at  Fern- 
side,  you  must  be  sensible,  is  rather  an  obstacle  to  the  sale.  I  beg  to 
inclose  you  a  draft  for  £100  to  pay  any  present  expenses;  and  to  re- 
quest, when  you  are  settled,  to  know  where  the  first  quarter  shall  be 
paid. 

I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Jackson  (who,  I  think,  is  the  bailiff)  to  detail 
my  instructions  as  to  selling  the  crops,  etc.,  and  discharging  the  servants  ; 
so  that  you  may  have  no  further  trouble. 

I  am,  madam,  your  obedient  Servant, 

Robert  Beaufort. 
Bebkelet  Square,  Sept.  12, 18 — . 


44  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

The  letter  fell  from  Catherine's  hands.  Her  grief  was 
changed  to  indignation  and  scorn.  • 

"The  insolent!  "  she  exclaimed  with  flashing  eyes.  "This 
to  me!  to  me!  the  wife,  the  lawful  wife  of  his  brother!  the 
wedded  mother  of  his  brother's  children!  " 

"Say  that  again,  Mother!  again,  again!"  cried  Philip,  in 
a  loud  voice.     "His  wife!  wedded!  " 

"I  swear  it,"  said  Catherine,  solemnly.  "I  kept  the  secret 
for  your  father's  sake.  Now,  for  yours,  the  truth  must  be 
proclaimed. " 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  murmured  Philip,  in  a  quiver- 
ing voice,  throwing  his  arms  round  his  brother.  "  We  have 
no  brand  on  our  names,  Sidney." 

At  those  accents,  so  full  of  suppressed  joy  and  pride,  the 
mother  felt  at  once  all  that  her  son  had  suspected  and  con- 
cealed. She  felt  that  beneath  his  haughty  and  wayward  char- 
acter there  had  lurked  delicate  and  generous  forbearance  for 
her;  that  from  his  equivocal  position  his  very  faults  might 
have  arisen;  and  a  pang  of  remorse  for  her  long  sacrifice  of 
the  children  to  the  father  shot  through  her  heart.  It  was 
followed  by  a  fear,  an  appalling  fear,  more  painful  than  the 
remorse.  The  proofs  that  were  to  clear  herself  and  them! 
The  words  of  her  husband,  that  last  awful  morning,  rang  in 
her  ear.  The  minister  dead;  the  witness  absent;  the  register 
lost!  But  the  copy  of  that  register! — the  copy!  might  not 
that  suffice?  She  groaned,  and  closed  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  future :  then  starting  up,  she  hurried  from  the  room, 
and  went  straight  to  Beaufort's  study.  As  she  laid  her  hand 
on  the  latch  of  the  door  she  trembled  and  drew  back ;  but  care 
for  the  living  was  stronger  at  that  moment  than  even  anguish 
for  the  dead.  She  entered  the  apartment ;  she  passed  with  a 
firm  step  to  the  bureau.  It  was  locked;  Kobert  Beaufort's 
seal  upon  the  lock,  —  on  every  cupboard,  every  box,  every 
drawer,  the  same  seal  that  spoke  of  rights  more  valued  than  her 
own.  But  Catherine  was  not  daunted.  She  turned  and  saw 
Philip  by  her  side;  she  pointed  to  the  bureau  in  silence;  the 
boy  understood  the  appeal.  He  left  the  room,  and  returned 
in  a   few  moments   with  a  chisel.      The  lock   was   broken. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  45 

Tremblingly  and  eagerly  Catherine  ransacked  the  contents; 
op^ied  paper  after  paper,  letter  after  letter,  in  vain:  no  cer- 
tificate, no  will,  no  memorial.  Could  the  brother  have  ab- 
stracted the  fatal  proof?  A  word  sufficed  to  explain  to  Philip 
what  she  sought  for,  and  his  search  was  more  minute  than  hers. 
Every  possible  receptacle  for  papers  in  that  room,  in  the  whole 
house,  was  explored,  and  still  the  search  was  fruitless. 

Three  hours  afterwards  they  were  in  the  same  room  in 
which  Philip  had  brought  Robert  Beaufort's  letter  to  his 
mother.  Catherine  was  seated,  tearless,  but  deadly  pale  with 
heart-sickness  and  dismay. 

"Mother,"  said  Philip,  "may  I  now  read  the  letter?" 

"Yes,  boy;  and  decide  for  us  all."  She  paused,  and  ex- 
amined his  face  as  he  read.  He  felt  her  eye  was  upon  him, 
and  restrained  his  emotions  as  he  proceeded.  When  he  had 
done,  he  lifted  his  dark  gaze  upon  Catherine's  watchful 
countenance. 

"Mother,  whether  or  not  we  obtain  our  rights,  you  will 
still  refuse  this  man's  charity?  lam  young  —  a  boy;  but  I 
am  strong  and  active.  I  will  work  for  you  day  and  night.  I 
have  it  in  me, — I  feel  it;  anything  rather  than  eating  his 
bread!" 

"Philip!  Philip!  you  are  indeed  my  son,  your  father's  son! 
And  have  you  no  reproach  for  your  mother,  who  so  weakly,  so 
criminally,  concealed  your  birthright,  till,  alas !  discovery  may 
be  too  late?  Oh!  reproach  me,  reproach  me!  it  will  be  kind- 
ness. No!  do  not  kiss  me!  I  cannot  bear  it.  Boy!  boy!  if, 
as  my  heart  tells  me,  we  fail  in  proof,  do  you  understand 
what  in  the  world's  eye  I  am;  what  you  are?" 

"I  do!  "  said  Philip,  firmly;  and  he  fell  on  his  knees  at  her 
feet.  "Whatever  others  call  you,  you  are  a  mother,  and  I 
your  son.  You  are,  in  the  judgment  of  Heaven,  my  father's 
Wife,  and  I  his  Heir." 

Catherine  bowed  her  head,  and  with  a  gush  of  tears,  fell 
into  his  arms.  Sidney  crept  up  to  her,  and  forced  his  lips  to 
her  cold  cheek.  "Mamma!  what  vexes  you?  Mamma, 
Mamma ! " 

"Oh,  Sidney!  Sidney!    How  like  his  father!    Look  at  him. 


46  NIGHT   AXD  MORNING. 

PliililD!     Sliall  we  do  right  to  refuse  him  even  this  pittance? 
Must  he  be  a  beggar  too?  " 

"i^ever  a  beggar,"  said  Philip,  with  a  pride  that  showed 
what  hard  lessons  he  had  yet  to  learn.  "The  lawful  sons  of 
a  Beaufort  were  not  born  to  beg  their  bread!  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  storm  above,  and  frozen  world  below. 

The  olive  bough 
Faded  and  cast  upon  the  common  wind, 
And  earth  a  doveless  ark.  —  Laman  Blanchard. 

Mk.  Egbert  Beaufort  was  generally  considered  by  the 
world  a  very  worthy  man.  He  had  never  committed  any 
excess,  —  never  gambled  nor  incurred  debt,  nor  fallen  into 
the  warm  errors  most  common  with  his  sex.  He  was  a  good 
husband,  a  careful  father,  an  agreeable  neighbour;  rather 
charitable  than  otherwise  to  the  poor;  he  was  honest  and 
methodical  in  his  dealings,  and  had  been  known  to  behave 
handsomely  in  different  relations  of  life.  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort, indeed,  always  meant  to  do  what  was  right  —  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  !  He  had  no  other  rule  of  action  but  that  which 
the  world  supplied;  his  religion  was  decorum,  his  sense  of 
honour  was  regard  to  opinion.  His  heart  was  a  dial  to  which 
the  world  was  the  sun :  when  the  great  eye  of  the  public  fell 
on  it,  it  answered  every  purpose  that  a  heart  could  answer; 
but  when  that  eye  was  invisible,  the  dial  was  mute,  —  a  piece 
of  brass  and  nothing  more. 

It  is  just  to  Robert  Beaufort  to  assure  the  reader  that  he 
wholly  disbelieved  his  brother's  story  of  a  private  marriage. 
He  considered  that  tale,  when  heard  for  the  first  time,  as  the 
mere  invention  (and  a  shallow  one)  of  a  man  wishing  to  make 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  47 

the  imprudent  step  he  was  about  to  take  as  respectable  as  he 
could.  The  careless  tone  of  his  brother  when  speaking  upon 
the  subject,  his  confession  that  of  such  a  marriage  there 
were  no  distinct  proofs  except  a  copy  of  a  register,  which  copy- 
Robert  had  not  found,  made  his  incredulity  natural.  He 
therefore  deemed  himself  under  no  obligation  of  delicacy  or 
respect  to  a  woman  through  whose  means  he  had  very  nearly 
lost  a  noble  succession, — a  woman  who  had  not  even  borne 
his  brother's  name;  a  woman  whom  nobody  knew.  Had  Mrs. 
Morton  been  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  the  natural  sons  legitimate 
children,  Robert  Beaufort,  supposing  their  situation  of  rela- 
tive power  and  dependence  to  have  been  the  same,  would  have 
behaved  with  careful  and  scrupulous  generosity.  The  world 
would  have  said,  "Nothing  can  be  handsomer  than  Mr.  Robert 
Beaufort's  conduct!"  Kay,  if  Mrs.  Morton  had  been  some 
divorced  wife  of  birth  and  connections,  he  would  have  made 
very  different  dispositions  in  her  favour;  he  would  not  have 
allowed  the  connections  to  call  him  shahbrj.  But  here  he  felt 
that,  all  circumstances  considered,  the  world,  if  it  spoke  at 
all  (which  it  would  scarce  think  it  worth  while  to  do),  would 
be  on  his  side.  An  artful  woman  —  low-born,  and,  of  course, 
low-bred  —  who  wanted  to  inveigle  her  rich  and  careless  para- 
mour into  marriage  —  what  could  be  expected  from  the  man 
she  had  sought  to  injure,  the  rightful  heir?  Was  it  not  very 
good  in  him  to  do  anything  for  her;  and  if  he  provided  for  the 
children  suitably  to  the  original  station  of  the  mother,  did  he 
not  go  to  the  very  utmost  of  reasonable  expectation?  He  cer- 
tainly thought  in  his  conscience,  such  as  it  was,  that  he  had 
acted  well,  —  not  extravagantly,  not  foolishly ;  but  well.  He 
was  sure  the  world  would  say  so  if  it  knew  all :  he  was  not 
bound  to  do  anything.  He  was  not,  therefore,  prepared  for 
Catherine's  short,  haughty,  but  temperate  reply  to  his  letter, 
—  a  reply  which  conveyed  a  decided  refusal  of  his  offers, 
asserted  positively  her  own  marriage  and  the  claims  of  her 
children,  intimated  legal  proceedings,  and  was  signed  in  the 
name  of  Catherine  Beaufort.  Mr.  Beaufort  put  the  letter  in 
his  bureau,  labelled,  "Impertinent  answer  from  Mrs.  Morton, 
September  14 ;  "  and  was  quite  contented  to  forget  the  exist- 


48  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

ence  of  tlie  writer,  until  his  lawyer,  Mr.  Blaekwell,  informed 
him  that  a  suit  had  been  instituted  by  Catherine. 

Mr.  Robert  turned  pale,  but  Blaekwell  composed  him. 

"  Pooh,  sir !  you  have  nothing  to  fear.  It  is  but  an  attempt 
to  extort  money.  The  attorney  is  a  low  practitioner,  accus- 
tomed to  get  up  bad  cases;  they  can  make  nothing  of  it." 

This  was  true.  Whatever  the  rights  of  the  case,  poor 
Catherine  had  no  proofs,  no  evidence,  which  could  justify  a 
respectable  lawyer  to  advise  her  proceeding  to  a  suit.  She 
named  two  witnesses  of  her  marriage,  —  one  dead,  the  other 
could  not  be  heard  of.  She  selected  for  the  alleged  place  in 
which  the  ceremony  was  performed  a  very  remote  village,  in 
which  it  appeared  that  the  register  had  been  destroyed.  No 
attested  copy  thereof  was  to  be  found,  and  Catherine  was 
stunned  on  hearing  that,  even  if  found,  it  was  doubtful 
whether  it  could  be  received  as  evidence,  unless  to  corrobo- 
rate actual  personal  testimony.  It  so  happened  that  when 
Philip,  many  years  ago,  had  received  a  copy,  he  had  not  shown 
it  to  Catherine,  nor  mentioned  Mr.  Jones's  name  as  the 
copyist.  In  fact,  then  only  three  years  married  to  Catherine, 
his  worldly  caution  had  not  yet  been  conquered  by  confident 
experience  of  her  generosity.  As  for  the  mere  moral  evi- 
dence dependent  on  the  publication  of  her  bans  in  London, 

that  amounted  to  no  proof  whatever ;  nor,  on  inquiry  at  A , 

did  the  Welsh  villagers  remember  anything  further  than  that, 
some  fifteen  years  ago,  a  handsome  gentleman  had  visited  Mr. 
Price,  and  one  or  two  rather  thought  that  Mr.  Price  had  mar- 
ried him  to  a  lady  from  London,  —  evidence  quite  inadmissi- 
ble against  the  deadly,  damning  fact  that  for  fifteen  years 
Catherine  had  oj)enly  borne  another  name,  and  lived  with  Mr. 
Beaufort  ostensibly  as  his  mistress.  Her  generosity  in  this 
destroyed  her  case.  Nevertheless,  she  found  a  low  practi- 
tioner, who  took  her  money  and  neglected  her  cause ;  so  her 
suit  was  heard  and  dismissed  with  contempt.  Henceforth, 
then,  indeed,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  and  the  public,  Catherine 
was  an  impudent  adventurer  and  her  sons  were  nameless 
outcasts. 

And  now,    relieved  from  all  fear,    Mr.   Robert  Beaufort 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  49 

entered  upon  the  full  enjoyment  of  his  splendid  fortune. 
The  house  in  Berkeley  Square  was  furnished  anew.  Great 
dinners  and  gay  routs  were  given  in  the  ensuing  spring.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Beaufort  became  persons  of  considerable  importance. 
The  rich  man  had,  even  when  poor,  been  ambitious ;  his  ambi- 
tion now  centred  in  his  only  son.  Arthur  had  always  been 
considered  a  boy  of  talents  and  promise;  to  what  might  he  not 
now  aspire?  The  term  of  his  probation  with  the  tutor  was 
abridged,  and  Arthur  Beaufort  was  sent  at  once  to  Oxford. 

Before  he  went  to  the  University,  during  a  short  prepara- 
tory visit  to  his  fatlier,  Arthur  spoke  to  him  of  the  Mortons. 

"  What  has  become  of  them,  sir ;  and  what  have  you  done 
for  them?" 

"Done  for  them!"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  opening  his  eyes. 
"What  should  I  do  for  persons  who  have  just  been  harassing 
me  with  the  most  unprincipled  litigation?  My  conduct  to 
them  has  been  too  generous,  — that  is,  all  things  considered; 
but  when  you  are  my  age  you  will  find  there  is  very  little 
gratitude  in  the  world,  Arthur." 

"Still,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  with  the  good  nature  that  belonged 
to  him,  "still,  my  uncle  was  greatly  attached  to  them;  and 
the  boys  at  least  are  guiltless." 

"Well,  well!"  replied  Mr.  Beaufort,  a  little  impatiently; 
"I  believe  they  want  for  nothing.  I  fancy  they  are  with  the 
mother's  relations.  Whenever  they  address  me  in  a  proper 
manner  they  shall  not  find  me  revengeful  or  hard-hearted; 
but  since  we  are  on  this  topic,"  continued  the  father,  smooth- 
ing his  shirt-frill  with  a  care  that  showed  his  decorum  even 
in  trifles,  "  I  hope  you  see  the  results  of  that  kind  of  connec- 
tion, and  that  you  will  take  warning  by  your  poor  uncle's 
example.  And  now  let  us  change  the  subject ;  it  is  not  a  very 
pleasant  one,  and  at  your  age  the  less  your  thoughts  turn  on 
such  matters  the  better." 

Arthur  Beaufort,  with  the  careless  generosity  of  youth,  that 
gauges  other  men's  conduct  by  its  own  sentiments,  believed 
that  his  father,  who  had  never  been  niggardly  to  himself,  had 
really  acted  as  his  words  implied;  and  engrossed  by  the  pur- 
suits of  the  new  and  brilliant  career  opened,  whether  to  his 
4 


50  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

pleasures  or  his  studies,  suffered  the  objects  of  his  inquiries 
to  pass  from  his  thouglits. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Morton,  for  by  that  name  we  must  still 
call  her,  and  her  children,  were  settled  in  a  small  lodging  in 
a  humble  suburb,  situated  on  the  high  road  between  Fernside 
and  the  metropolis.  She  saved  from  her  hopeless  law-suit, 
after  the  sale  of  her  jewels  and  ornaments,  a  sufficient  sum  to 
enable  her,  with  economy,  to  live  respectably  for  a  year  or  two 
at  least,  during  which  time  she  might  arrange  her  plans  for 
the  future.  She  reckoned,  as  a  sure  resource,  upon  the  assist- 
ance of  her  relations;  but  it  was  one  to  which  she  applied 
with  natural  shame  and  reluctance.  She  had  kept  up  a  corre- 
spondence with  her  father  during  his  life.  To  him  she  never 
revealed  the  secret  of  her  marriage,  though  she  did  not  write 
like  a  person  conscious  of  error.  Perhaps,  as  she  always  said 
to  her  son,  she  had  made  to  her  husband  a  solemn  promise 
never  to  divulge  or  even  hint  that  secret  until  he  himself 
should  authorize  its  disclosure;  for  neither  he  nor  Catherine 
ever  contemplated  separation  or  death.  Alas !  how  all  of  us, 
when  happy,  sleep  secure  in  the  dark  shadows,  which  ought 
to  warn  us  of  the  sorrows  that  are  to  come!  Still  Catherine's 
father,  a  man  of  coarse  mind  and  not  rigid  principles,  did  not 
take  much  to  heart  that  connection  which  he  assumed  to  be 
illicit.  She  was  provided  for,  —  that  was  some  comfort. 
Doubtless  Mr.  Beaufort  would  act  like  a  gentleman,  perhaps 
at  last  make  her  an  honest  woman  and  a  lady.  Meanwhile, 
she  had  a  fine  house  and  a  fine  carriage  and  fine  servants ;  and 
so  far  from  applying  to  him  for  money,  was  constantly  send- 
ing him  little  presents.  But  Catherine  only  saw  in  his  per- 
mission of  her  correspondence  kind,  forgiving,  and  trustful 
affection,  and  she  loved  him  tenderly;  when  he  died,  the  link 
that  bound  her  to  her  family  was  broken.  Her  brother  suc- 
ceeded to  the  trade,  —  a  man  of  probity  and  honour,  but  some- 
what hard  and  unamiable.  In  the  only  letter  she  had  received 
from  him  —  the  one  announcing  her  father's  death  —  he  told 
her  plainly,  and  very  properly,  that  he  could  not  countenance 
the  life  she  led;  that  he  had  children  growing  up;  that  all 
intercourse  between  them  was  at  an  end,  unless  she  loft  Mr. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  51 

Beaufort,  —  when,  if  she  sincerely  repented,  he  would  still 
prove  her  affectionate  brother. 

Though  Catherine  had  at  the  time  resented  this  letter  as 
unfeeling,  now,  humbled  and  sorrow-stricken,  she  recognized 
the  propriety  of  principle  from  which  it  emanated.  Her 
brother  was  well  off  for  his  station;  she  would  explain  to 
him  her  real  situation;  he  would  believe  her  story.  She 
would  write  to  him,  and  beg  him  at  least  to  give  aid  to  her 
poor  children. 

But  this  step  she  did  not  take  till  a  considerable  portion  of 
her  pittance  was  consumed,  till  nearly  three  parts  of  a  year 
since  Beaufort's  death  had  expired,  and  till  sundry  warnings, 
not  to  be  lightly  heeded,  had  made  her  forbode  the  probability 
of  an  early  death  for  herself.  From  the  age  of  sixteen,  when 
she  had  been  placed  by  Mr.  Beaufort  at  the  head  of  his  house- 
hold, she  had  been  cradled,  not  in  extravagance,  but  in  an 
easy  luxury,  which  had  not  brought  with  it  habits  of  economy 
and  thrift.  She  could  grudge  anything  to  herself,  but  to  her 
children  —  his  children,  whose  every  whim  had  been  antici- 
pated —  she  had  not  the  heart  to  be  saving.  She  could  have 
starved  in  a  garret  had  she  been  alone ;  but  she  could  not  see 
them  wanting  a  comfort  while  she  possessed  a  guinea.  Philip, 
to  do  him  justice,  evinced  a  consideration  not  to  have  been 
expected  from  his  early  and  arrogant  recklessness ;  but  Sidney, 
—  who  could  expect  consideration  from  such  a  child;  what 
could  he  know  of  the  change  of  circumstances,  of  the  value 
,of  money?  Did  he  seem  dejected,  Catherine  would  steal  out 
and  spend  a  week's  income  on  the  lapful  of  toys  which  she 
brought  home.  Did  he  seem  a  shade  more  pale,  did  he  com- 
plain of  the  slightest  ailment,  a  doctor  must  be  sent  for. 
Alas!  her  own  ailments,  neglected  and  unheeded,  were  grow- 
ing beyond  the  reach  of  medicine.  Anxious,  fearful,  gnawed 
by  regret  for  the  past,  the  thought  of  famine  in  the  future, 
she  daily  fretted  and  wore  herself  away.  She  had  cultivated 
her  mind  during  her  secluded  residence  with  Mr.  Beaufort; 
but  she  had  learned  none  of  the  arts  by  which  decayed  gentle- 
women keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  —  no  little  holiday  accom- 
plishments, which  in  the  day  of  need  turn  to  useful  trade;  no 


52  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

water-colour  drawings,  no  paintings  on  velvet,  no  fabrications 
of  pretty  gewgaws,  no  embroidery  and  fine  needlework.  She 
was  helpless,  utterly  helpless ;  if  she  had  resigned  herself  to 
the  thought  of  service,  she  would  not  have  had  the  physical 
strength  for  a  place  of  drudgery,  —  and  where  could  she  have 
found  the  testimonials  necessary  for  a  place  of  trust?  A 
great  change  at  this  time  was  apparent  in  Philip.  Had  he 
fallen,  then,  into  kind  hands,  and  under  guiding  eyes,  his 
passions  and  energies  might  have  ripened  into  rare  qualities 
and  great  virtues ;  but  perhaps,  as  Goethe  has  somewhere  said, 
"Experience,  after  all,  is  the  best  teacher."  He  kept  a  con- 
stant guard  on  his  vehement  temper,  his  wayward  will;  he 
would  not  have  vexed  his  mother  for  the  world.  But,  strange 
to  say  (it  was  a  great  mystery  in  the  woman's  heart),  in  pro- 
portion as  he  became  more  amiable,  it  seemed  that  his  mother 
loved  him  less.  Perhaps  she  did  not  in  that  change  recognize 
so  closely  the  darling  of  the  old  time ;  perhaps  the  very  weak- 
nesses and  importunities  of  Sidney,  the  hourly  sacrifices  the 
child  entailed  upon  her,  endeared  the  younger  son  more  to  her 
from  that  natural  sense  of  dependence  and  protection  which 
forms  the  great  bond  between  mother  and  child;  perhaps  too, 
as  Philip  had  been  one  to  inspire  as  much  pride  as  affection, 
so  the  pride  faded  away  with  the  expectations  that  had  fed  it, 
and  carried  off  in  its  decay  some  of  the  affection  that  was 
intertwined  with  it.  However  this  be,  Philip  had  formerly 
appeared  the  more  spoiled  and  favoured  of  the  two,  and  now 
Sidney  seemed  all  in  all.  Thus,  beneath  the  younger  son's 
caressing  gentleness,  there  grew  up  a  certain  regard  for  self. 
It  was  latent,  it  took  amiable  colours ;  it  had  even  a  certain 
charm  and  grace  in  so  sweet  a  child ;  but  selfishness  it  was  not 
the  less.  In  this  he  differed  from  his  brother.  Philip  was 
self-willed,  Sidney  self -loving.  A  certain  timidity  of  charac- 
ter, endearing  perhaps  to  the  anxious  heart  of  a  mother,  made 
this  fault  in  the  younger  boy  more  likely  to  take  root;  for  in 
bold  natures  there  is  a  lavish  and  uncalculating  recklessness 
which  scorns  self  unconsciously :  and  though  there  is  a  fear 
which  arises  from  a  loving  heart,  and  is  but  sympathy  for 
others,  the  fear  which  belongs  to  a  timid  character  is  but  ego- 


NIGHT   AND   MORXTXG.  63 

tism,  — but,  -when  physical,  the  regard  for  one's  own  person; 
when  moral,  the  anxiety  for  one's  own  interests. 

It  was  in  a  small  room  in  a  lodging-house  in  the  suburb  of 

H that  Mrs.  Morton  was  seated  by  the  window,  nervously 

awaiting  the  knock  of  the  postman,  who  was  expected  to  bring 
her  brother's  reply  to  her  letter.  It  was  therefore  between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  a  morning  in  the  merry  month  of 
June.  It  was  hot  and  sultry,  which  is  rare  in  an  English 
June.  A  flytrap,  red,  white,  and  yellow,  suspended  from  the 
ceiling,  swarmed  with  flies;  flies  were  on  the  ceiling,  flies 
buzzed  at  the  windows;  the  sofa  and  chairs  of  horsehair 
seemed  stuffed  with  flies.  There  was  an  air  of  heated  dis- 
comfort in  the  thick,  solid  moreen  curtains,  in  the  gaudy 
paper,  in  the  bright-staring  carpet,  in  the  very  looking-glass 
over  the  chimneypiece,  where  a  strip  of  mirror  lay  imprisoned 
in  an  embrace  of  frame  covered  with  yellow  muslin.  We  may 
talk  of  the  dreariness  of  winter,  — and  winter  no  doubt  is 
desolate;  but  what  in  the  world  is  more  dreary  to  eyes  inured 
to  the  verdure  and  bloom  of  Nature  — 

"  The  pomp  of  grores  and  garniture  of  fields  "  — 

than  a  close  room  in  a  suburban  lodging-house,  —  the  sun 
piercing  every  corner;  nothing  fresh,  nothing  cool,  nothing 
fragrant,  to  be  seen,  felt,  or  inhaled;  all  dust,  glare,  noise, 
with  a  chandler's  shop,  perhaps,  next  door?  Sidney,  armed 
with  a  pair  of  scissors,  was  cutting  the  pictures  out  of  a  story- 
book, which  his  mother  had  bought  him  the  day  before. 
Philip,  who  of  late  had  taken  much  to  rambling  about  the 
streets,  —  it  may  be  in  hopes  of  meeting  one  of  those  be- 
nevolent, eccentric,  elderly  gentlemen  he  had  read  of  in  old 
novels,  who  suddenly  come  to  the  relief  of  distressed  virtue ; 
or,  more  probably,  from  the  restlessness  that  belonged  to  his 
adventurous  temperament,  —  Philip  had  left  the  house  since 
breakfast. 

"Oh,  how  hot  this  nasty  room  is!"  exclaimed  Sidney, 
abruptly,  looking  up  from  his  employment.  "Sha'n't  we 
ever  go  into  the  country  again.  Mamma?" 

"Not  at  present,  my  love." 


54  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

''I  wish  I  could  have  my  pony;  why  can't  I  have  my  pony, 
Mamma?  " 

"Because  —  because  —the  pony  is  sohl,  Sidney." 

"Who  sold  it?" 

"Your  uncle." 

"He  is  a  very  naughty  man,  my  uncle;  is  he  not?  But 
can't  I  have  another  pony?  It  would  be  so  nice,  this  fine 
weather ! " 

"Ah!  my  dear,  I  wish  I  could  afford  it;  but  you  shall  have 
a  ride  this  week!  Yes,"  continued  the  mother,  as  if  reason- 
ing with  herself  in  excuse  of  the  extravagance,  "  he  does  not 
look  well;  poor  child!  he  mws^  have  exercise." 

"A  ride! — oh,  that  is  my  own  kind  Mamma!"  exclaimed 
Sidney,  clapping  his  hands.  "Not  on  a  donkey,  you  know! 
—  a  pony.  The  man  down  the  street  there  lets  ponies. 
I  must  have  the  white  pony  with  the  long  tail.  But,  I 
say.  Mamma,  don't  tell  Philip,  pray  don't;  he  would  be 
jealous." 

"No,  not  jealous,  my  dear;  why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Because  he  is  always  angry  when  I  ask  you  for  anything. 
It  is  very  unkind  in  him,  for  I  don't  care  if  he  has  a  pony, 
too,  — only  not  the  white  one." 

Here  the  postman's  knock,  loud  and  sudden,  startled  Mrs. 
Morton  from  her  seat. 

She  pressed  her  hands  tightly  to  her  heart,  as  if  to  still  its 
beating,  and  went  tremulously  to  the  door;  thence  to  the 
stairs,  to  anticipate  the  lumbering  step  of  the  slipshod  maid- 
servant. 

"Give  it  me,  Jane;  give  it  me!  " 

"One  shilling  and  eightpence  —  charged  double  — if  you 
please,  ma'am!     Thank  you." 

"Mamma,  may  I  tell  Jane  to  engage  the  pony?" 
"Not  now,  my  love;   sit  down;   be  quiet:   I  — I   am   not 
well." 

Sidney,  who  was  affectionate  and  obedient,  crept  back 
peaceably  to  the  window,  and  after  a  short,  impatient  sigh 
resumed  the  scissors  and  the  story-book. 

I  do  not  apologize  to  the  reader  for  the  various  letters  I  am 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  65 

obliged  to  lay  before  him ;  for  character  often  betrays  itself 
more  in  letters  than  in  speech.  Mr.  Roger  Morton's  reply 
was  couched  in  these  terms :  — 

Dear  Catherine,  —  I  have  received  your  letter  of  the  14tli  inst., 
and  write  per  return.  I  am  very  much  grieved  to  hear  of  your  afflic- 
tions ;  but,  whatever  you  say,  I  cannot  think  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort 
acted  like  a  conscientious  man  in  forgetting  to  make  his  will,  and  leav- 
ing his  little  ones  destitute.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  his  intentions, 
but  the  proof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the  eating  ;  and  it  is  hard  upon  me, 
who  have  a  large  family  of  my  own,  and  get  my  livelihood  by  honest 
industry,  to  have  a  rich  gentleman's  children  to  maintain.  As  for  your 
story  about  the  private  marriage,  it  may  or  may  not  be.  Perhaps  you 
were  taken  in  by  that  worthless  man,  for  a  real  marriage  it  could  not  be. 
And,  as  you  say,  the  law  has  decided  that  point ;  therefore,  the  less 
you  say  on  the  matter  the  better.  It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
People  are  not  bound  to  believe  what  can't  be  proved  ;  and  even  if  what 
you  say  is  true,  you  are  more  to  be  blamed  than  pitied  for  holding  your 
tongue  so  many  years,  and  discrediting  an  honest  family,  as  ours  has 
always  been  considered.  I  am  sure  mij  wife  would  not  have  thought 
of  such  a  thing  for  the  finest  gentleman  that  ever  wore  shoe-leather. 
However,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings  ;  and  I  am  sure  I  am  ready 
to  do  whatever  is  right  and  proper.  You  cannot  expect  that  I  should 
ask  you  to  my  house.     My  wife,  you  know,  is  a  very  religious  woman, 

—  what  is  called  evangelical;  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  deal 
with  all  people,  churchmen  and  dissenters,  —  even  Jews,  —  and  don't 
trouble  my  head  much  about  differences  in  opinion.  I  dare  say  there 
are  many  ways  to  heaven,  —  as  I  said  the  other  day  to  Mr.  Thwaites, 
our  member.  But  it  is  right  to  say  my  wife  will  not  hear  of  your  com- 
ing here ;  and,  indeed,  it  might  do  harm  to  my  business,  for  there  are 
several  elderly  single  gentlewomen  who  buy  flannel  for  the  poor  at  my 
shop,  and  they  are  very  particular,  —  as  they  ought  to  be,  indeed ;  for 
morals  are  very  strict  in  this  county,  and  particularly  in  this  town, 
where  we  certainly  do  pay  very  high  church-rates.  Not  that  I  grumble ; 
for,  though  I  am  as  liberal  as  any  man,  I  am  for  an  established  church, 

—  as  I  ought  to  be,  since  the  dean  is  my  best  customer.  With  regard  to 
yourself  I  inclose  you  £10,  and  you  will  let  me  know  when  it  is  gone,  and 
I  will  see  what  more  I  can  do.  You  say  you  are  very  poorly,  which  I 
am  sorry  to  hear  ;  but  you  must  pluck  up  your  spirits,  and  take  in 
plain  work  ;  and  I  really  think  you  ought  to  apply  to  Mr.  Robert  Beau- 
fort. He  bears  a  high  character ;  and  notwithstanding  your  lawsuit, 
which  I  cannot  approve  of,  I  dare  say  he  might  allow  you  £40  or  £50 


56  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

a  year,  if  you  apply  properly,  which  would  be  the  right  thing  in  him. 
So  much  for  you.  As  for  the  boys,  —  poor,  fatherless  creatures  !  —  it 
is  very  hard  that  they  should  be  so  punished  for  no  fault  of  their  own  ; 
and  my  wife,  who,  though  strict,  is  a  good-hearted  woman,  is  ready  and 
willing  to  do  what  I  wish  about  them.  You  say  the  eldest  is  near  six- 
teen, and  well  come  on  in  liis  studies.  I  can  get  him  a  very  good  thing 
in  a  light  genteel  way.     My  wife's  brother,  !Mr.  Christopher  Plaskwith, 

is  a  bookseller  and  stationer  with  pretty  practice,  in  R .     He  is  a 

clever  man,  and  has  a  newspaper,  which  he  kindly  sends  nie  e\ery 
week;  and  though  it  is  not  my  county,  it  has  some  very  sensible  views, 
and  is  often  noticed  in  the  London  papers  as  'our  jjrovincial  contem- 
porary.' Mr.  Plaskwith  owes  me  some  money,  which  I  advanced  him 
when  he  set  up  the  paper,  and  he  has  several  times  most  honestly  offered 
to  pay  me  in  shares  in  the  said  paper  ;  but  as  the  thing  might  break, 
and  I  don't  like  concerns  I  don't  understand,  I  have  not  taken  advan- 
tage of  his  very  handsome  proposals.  Now,  Plaskwith  wrote  me  word, 
two  days  ago,  that  he  wanted  a  genteel,  smart  lad,  as  assistant  and 
'prentice,  and  offered  to  take  my  eldest  boy;  but  we  can't  spare  him. 
I  write  to  Christopher  by  this  post;  and  if  your  youth  will  run  down  on 
the  top  of  the  coach,  and  inquire  for  Mr.  Plaskwith,  —  the  fare  is 
trifling,  —  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  be  engaged  at  once.  But  you  will 
say,  '  There  's  the  premium  to  consider ! '  No  such  thing  ;  Kit  will  set 
off  the  premium  against  his  debt  to  me,  so  you  will  have  nothing  to  pay. 
'Tis  a  very  pretty  business ;  and  the  lad's  education  will  get  him  on;  so 
that 's  off  your  mind.  As  to  the  little  chap,  I  '11  take  him  at  once.  You 
say  he  is  a  pretty  boy,  and  a  pretty  boy  is  always  a  help  in  a  linen- 
draper's  shop.  He  shall  share  and  share  with  my  own  young  folks,  and 
]Mrs.  Morton  will  take  care  of  his  washing  and  morals.  I  conclude  — 
this  is  Mrs.  M.'s  suggestion  —  that  he  has  had  the  measles,  cowpock, 
and  whooping-cough,  which  please  let  me  know.  If  he  behave  well, 
Avhich  at  his  age  we  can  easily  break  him  into,  he  is  settled  for  life.  So 
now  you  have  got  rid  of  two  mouths  to  feed,  and  have  nobody  to  think 
of  but  yourself,  which  must  be  a  great  comfort.  Don't  forget  to  write  to 
Mr.  Beaufort,  and  if  he  don't  do  something  for  you  he  's  not  the  gentle- 
man I  take  him  for ;  but  you  are  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  sha'  n't 
starve;  for  though  I  don't  think  it  right  in  a  man  in  business  to  encour- 
age what 's  wrong,  yet  when  a  person 's  down  in  the  world,  I  think  an 
ounce  of  help  is  better  than  a  pound  of  preaching.  !My  wife  tliinks 
otherwise,  and  wants  to  send  you  some  tracts  ;  but  everybody  can't  be 
as  correct  as  some  folks.  However,  as  I  said  before,  that's  neither  here 
nor  there.  Let  me  know  when  your  boy  comes  down,  and  also  about 
the  measles,  cow-pock,  and  whooping-cough ;  also  if  all 's  right  with  ^Ir. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  67 

Plaskwith.     So  now  I  hope  you  will  feel  more  comfortable ;  and  remain, 
dear  Catherine,  Your  forgiving  and  affectionate  brother, 

Roger  Mokton. 
High  Street,  N ,  June  13. 

P.  S.  —  Mrs.  M.  says  that  she  will  be  a  mother  to  your  little  boy,  and 
that  you  had  better  mend  up  all  his  linen  before  you  send  him. 

As  Catlieriue  finished  this  epistle,  she  lifted  her  eyes  and 
beheld  Philip.  He  had  entered  noiselessly,  and  he  remained 
silent,  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  watching  the  face  of  his 
mother,  which  crimsoned  with  painful  humiliation  while  she 
read.  Philip  was  not  now  the  trim  and  dainty  stripling  first 
introduced  to  the  reader.  He  had  outgrown  his  faded  suit  of 
funereal  mourning;  his  long-neglected  hair  hung  elf -like  and 
matted  down  his  cheeks ;  there  was  a  gloomy  look  in  his  bright 
dark  eyes.  Poverty  never  betrays  itself  more  than  in  the 
features  and  form  of  Pride.  It  was  evident  that  his  spirit 
endured,  rather  than  accommodated  itself  to,  his  fallen  state ; 
and  notwithstanding  his  soiled  and  threadbare  garments,  and 
a  haggardness  that  ill  becomes  the  years  of  palmy  youth,  there 
was  about  his  whole  mien  and  person  a  wild  and  savage 
grandeur  more  impressive  than  his  former  ruffling  arrogance 
of  manner. 

"Well,  Mother,"  said  he,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  stern- 
ness in  his  countenance  and  pity  in  his  voice,  —  "well.  Mother, 
and  what  says  your  brother?" 

"You  decided  for  us  once  before;  decide  again.  But  I  need 
not  ask  you ;  you  would  never  —  " 

"I  don't  know,"  interrupted  Philip,  vaguely;  "let  me  see 
what  we  are  to  decide  on." 

Mrs.  Morton  was  naturally  a  woman  of  high  courage  and 
spirit,  but  sickness  and  grief  had  worn  down  both;  and  though 
Philip  was  but  sixteen,  there  is  something  in  the  very  nature 
of  woman  —  especially  in  trouble  —  which  makes  her  seek  to 
lean  on  some  other  will  than  her  own.  She  gave  Philip  the 
letter,  and  went  quietly  to  sit  down  by  Sidney. 

"  Your  brother  means  well, "  said  Philip,  when  he  had  con- 
cluded the  epistle. 


58  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"Yes,  but  nothing  is  to  be  done;  I  cannot,  cannot  send  poor 
Sidney  to  —  to  —  "  and  Mrs.  Morton  sobbed. 

"No,  my  dear,  dear  Mother,  no;  it  would  be  terrible  indeed 
to  part  you  and  him.  But  this  bookseller  —  Plaskwith  —  per- 
haps I  shall  be  able  to  support  you  both." 

"Why,  you  do  not  think,  Philip,  of  being  an  apprentice! 

you,    who  have  been  so    brought  up;    you,    who   are  so 

proud ! " 

"Mother,  I  would  sweep  the  crossings  for  your  sake! 
Mother,  for  your  sake  I  would  go  to  my  uncle  Beaufort  with 
my  hat  in  my  hand,  for  halfpence.  Mother,  I  am  not  proud. 
I  would  be  honest,  if  I  can;  but  when  I  see  you  pining  away, 
and  so  changed,  the  devil  comes  into  me,  and  I  often  shudder 
lest  I  should  commit  some  crime  —  what,  I  don't  know!  " 

"  Come  here,  Philip,  my  own  Philip,  my  son,  my  hope,  my 
firstborn!"  and  the  mother's  heart  gushed  forth  in  all  the 
fondness  of  early  days.  "Don't  speak  so  terribly,  you  frigh- 
ten me ! " 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  kissed  him  sooth- 
ingly. He  laid  his  burning  temples  on  her  bosom,  and  nestled 
himself  to  her,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  after  some  stormy 
paroxysm  of  his  passionate  and  wayward  infancy.  So  there 
they  remained  —  their  lips  silent,  their  hearts  speaking  to 
each  other,  each  from  each  taking  strange  succour  and  holy 
strength  —  till  Philip  rose,  calm,  and  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"Good-by,  Mother;  I  will  go  at  once  to  Mr.  Plaskwith." 

"But  you  have  no  money  for  the  coach-fare;  here,  Philip," 
and  she  placed  her  purse  in  his  hand,  from  which  he  reluc- 
tantly selected  a  few  shilings.  "And  mind,  if  the  man  is 
rude  and  you  dislike  him,  — mind,  you  must  not  subject  your- 
self to  insolence  and  mortification." 

"Oh,  all  will  go  well,  don't  fear,"  said  Philip,  cheerfully, 
and  he  left  the  house. 

Towards  evening  he  had  reached  his  destination.  The  shop 
was  of  goodly  exterior,  with  a  private  entrance.  Over  the 
shop  was  written,  "Christopher  Plaskwith,  Bookseller  and 
Stationer;"  on  the  private  door  a  brass  plate,  inscribed  with 
"R and* Mercury  Office,  Mr.  Plaskwith."     Philip 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  69 

applied  at  the  private  entrance,  and  was  shown  by  a  "neat- 
handed  Phillis  "  into  a  small  office-room.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  door  opened,  and  the  bookseller  entered. 

Mr.  Christopher  Plaskwith  was  a  short,  stout  man,  in  drab- 
coloured  breeches,  and  gaiters  to  match;  a  black  coat  and 
waistcoat;  he  wore  a  large  watch-chain,  with  a  prodigious 
bunch  of  seals,  alternated  by  small  keys  and  old-fashioned 
mourning-rings.  His  complexion  was  pale  and  sodden,  and, 
his  hair  short,  dark,  and  sleek.  The  bookseller  valued  him- 
self on  a  likeness  to  Buonaparte,  and  affected  a  short,  brusque, 
peremptory  manner,  which  he  meant  to  be  the  indication  of 
the  vigorous  and  decisive  character  of  his  prototype. 

"  So  you  are  the  young  geirtleman  Mr.  Eoger  Morton  rec- 
ommends?" Here  Mr.  Plaskwith  took  out  a  huge  pocket- 
book,  slowly  unclasped  it,  staring  hard  at  Philip,  with  what 
he  designed  for  a  piercing  and  penetrating  survey. 

"This  is  the  letter  —  no!  this  is  Sir  Thomas  Champerdown's 
order  for  fifty  copies  of  the  last  "Mercury,"  containing  his 
speech  at  the  county  meeting.  Your  age,  young  man?  —  only 
sixteen?  —  look  older ;  —  that 's  not  it,  that 's  not  it  —  and  this 
is  it!  Sit  down.  Yes,  Mr.  Eoger  Morton  recommends  you,  — 
a  relation — unfortunate  circumstances  — well  educated  —  hum ! 
Well,  young  man,  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?  " 

"Sir?" 

"Can  you  cast  accounts;  know  bookkeeping?" 

"I  know  something  of  algebra,  sir." 

"  Algebra !  —  oh,  what  else?  " 

"French  and  Latin." 

"Hum! — may  be  useful.  Why  do  you  wear  your  hair  so 
long?  —  look  at  mine.     What 's  your  name?  " 

"Philip  Morton." 

"Mr.  Philip  Morton,  you  have  an  intelligent  countenance, 
— I  go  a  great  deal  by  countenances.  You  know  the  terms? 
—  most  favourable  to  you.  No  premium  —  I  settle  that  with 
Eoger ;  I  give  board  and  bed,  —  find  your  own  washing ;  habits 
regular,  —  'prenticeship  only  five  years ;  when  over,  must  not 
set  up  in  the  same  town.  I  will  see  to  the  indentures.  When 
can  you  come?" 


60  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

"When  you  please,  sir." 

"Day  after  to-morrow,  by  six  o'clock  coach." 

"But,  sir,"  said  Philip,  "will  there  be  no  salary, — some- 
thing, ever  so  small,  that  I  could  send  to  my  mother?  " 

"Salary,  at  sixteen?  —  board  and  bed  —  no  premium!  Sal- 
ary, what  for?  'Prentices  have  no  salary! — you  will  have 
every  comfort." 

"  Give  me  less  comfort,  that  I  may  give  my  mother  more, 
—  a  little  money,  ever  so  little,  and  take  it  out  of  my  board. 
I  can  do  with  one  meal  a  day,  sir." 

The  bookseller  was  moved;  he  took  a  huge  pinch  of  snuff 
out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  mused  a  moment.  He  then 
said,  as  he  re-examined  Philip^  — 

"Well,  young  man,  I'll  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  You 
shall  come  here  first  upon  trial;  see  if  we  like  each  other 
before  we  sign  the  indentures;  allow  you,  meanwhile,  five 
shillings  a  week.  If  you  show  talent,  will  see  if  I  and  Koger 
can  settle  about  some  little  allowance.     That  do,  eh?" 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  yes,"  said  Philip,  gratefully. 

"Agreed,  then.     Follow  me;  present  you  to  Mrs.  P." 

Thus  saying,  Mr.  Plaskwith  returned  the  letter  to  the 
pocketbook,  and  the  pocketbook  to  the  pocket;  and  putting 
his  arms  behind  his  coat  tails,  threw  up  his  chin,  and  strode 
through  the  passage  into  a  small  parlour,  that  looked  upon  a 
small  garden.  Here,  seated  rovmd  the  table,  were  a  thin  lady, 
with  a  squint,  Mrs.  Plaskwith,  two  little  girls,  the  Misses 
Plaskwith,  also  with  squints,  and  pinafores ;  a  young  man  of 
three  or  four-and-twenty,  in  nankeen  trousers,  a  little  the 
worse  for  washing,  and  a  black  velveteen  jacket  and  waist- 
coat. This  young  gentleman  was  very  much  freckled;  wore 
his  hair,  which  was  dark  and  wiry,  up  at  one  side,  down  at 
the  other;  had  a  short  thick  nose;  full  lips;  and  when  close 
to  him  smelt  of  cigars.  Such  was  Mr.  Plimmins,  Mr.  Plask- 
with's  factotum,  foreman  in  the  shop,  assistant  editor  to  the 
"Mercury."  Mr.  Plaskwith  formally  went  the  round  of  the 
introduction.  Mrs.  P.  nodded  her  head;  the  Misses  P.  nudged 
each  other,  and  grinned;  Mr.  Plimmins  passed  his  hand 
through  his  hair,  glanced  at  the  glass,  and  bowed  very  politely. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  61 

"Now,  Mrs.  P.,  my  second  cup,  and  give  Mr.  Morton  his 
dish  of  tea.  Must  be  tired,  sir  —  hot  day.  Jemima,  ring  — 
no,  go  to  the  stairs  and  call  out  *  More  buttered  toast.'  That 's 
the  shorter  way  —  promptitude  is  my  rule  in  life,  Mr.  Morton. 
Pray  —  hum,  hum  —  have  you  ever,  by  chance,  studied  the 
biography  of  the  great  Napoleon  Buonaparte?" 

JMr.  Plimmins  gulped  down  his  tea,  and  kicked  Philip  under 
the  table.  Philip  looked  fiercely  at  the  foreman,  and  replied 
sullenly,  "No,  sir." 

"That's  a  pity.  Napoleon  Buonaparte  was  a  very  great 
man, — very!  You  have  seen  his  cast?  —  there  it  is,  on  the 
dumb  waiter!     Look  at  it!  see  a  likeness,  eh?" 

"Likeness,  sir?     I  never  saw  Napoleon  Buonaparte." 

"Never  saw  ?iim/  No,  just  look  round  the  room.  Who 
does  that  bust  put  you  in  mind  of;  who  does  it  resemble?  " 

Here  Mr.  Plaskwith  rose,  and  placed  himself  in  an  attitude, 
—  his  hand  in  his  waistcoat,  and  his  face  pensively  inclined 
towards  the  tea-table.  "Now  fancy  me  at  St.  Helena;  this 
table  is  the  ocean.  Now,  then,  who  is  that  cast  like,  Mr. 
Philip  Morton?" 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  it  is  like  you !  " 

"Ah,  that  it  is!  strikes  every  one!  Does  it  not,  Mrs.  P., 
does  it  not?  And  when  you  have  known  me  longer,  you  will 
find  a  moral  similitude, — a  moral,  sir!  Straightforward, 
short,  to  the  point,  bold,  determined!  " 

"Bless  me,  Mr.  P.!"  said  Mrs.  Plaskwith,  very  queru- 
lously, "  do  make  haste  with  your  tea ;  the  young  gentleman, 
I  suppose,  wants  to  go  home,  and  the  coach  passes  in  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour." 

"  Have  you  seen  Kean  in  '  Richard  the  Third, '  Mr. 
Morton?"   asked  Mr.  Plimmins. 

"I  have  never  seen  a  play." 

"  Never  seen  a  play !     How  very  odd !  " 

"Not  at  all  odd,  Mr.  Plimmins,"  said  the  stationer.  "Mr. 
Morton  has  known  troubles,  — so  hand  him  the  hot  toast." 

Silent  and  morose,  but  rather  disdainful  than  sad,  Philip 
listened  to  the  babble  round  him,  and  observed  the  ungenial 
characters  with  which  he  was  to  associate.     He  cared  not  to 


62  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

please  {that,  alas!  bad  never  been  especially  Ins  study);  it 
was  enough  for  liim  if  he  could  see,  stretching  to  his  mind's 
eye  beyond  the  walls  of  that  dull  room,  the  long  vistas  into 
fairer  fortune.  At  sixteen,  what  sorrow  can  freeze  the  Hope, 
or  what  prophetic  fear  whisper  "  Fool  "  to  the  Ambition?  He 
would  bear  back  into  ease  and  prosperity,  if  not  into  affluence 
and  station,  the  dear  ones  left  at  home.  From  the  eminence 
of  five  shillings  a  week,  he  looked  over  the  Promised 
Land. 

At  length,  Mr.  Plaskwith,  pulling  out  his  watch,  said, 
"  Just  in  time  to  catch  the  coach ;  make  your  bow  and  be  off 

smart 's  the  word!  "     Philip  rose,  took  up  his  hat,  made  a 

stiff  bow  that  included  the  whole  group,  and  vanished  with 
his  host. 

Mrs.  Plaskwith  breathed  more  easily  when  he  was  gone. 

"I  never  seed  a  more  odd,  fierce,  ill-bred-looking  young 
man !  I  declare  I  am  quite  afraid  of  him.  What  an  eye  he 
has ! " 

"Uncommonly  dark;  what  I  may  say  gypsy-like,''  said  Mr. 
Plimmins. 

"He!  he!  You  always  do  say  such  good  things,  Plim- 
mins. Gypsy-like,  he !  he !  So  he  is !  I  wonder  if  he  can 
tell  fortunes." 

"He  '11  be  long  before  he  has  a  fortune  of  his  own  to  tell. 
Ha!  ha!"  said  Plimmins. 

"He!  he!  how  re?-?/ good!  you  are  so  pleasant,  Plimmins." 

While  these  strictures  on  his  appearance  were  still  going 
on,  Philip  had  already  ascended  the  roof  of  the  coach;  and 
waving  his  hand,  with  the  condescension  of  old  times,  to  his 
future  master,  was  carried  away  by  the  "Express"  in  a  whirl- 
wind of  dust. 

"A  very  warm  evening,  sir,"  said  a  passenger  seated  at  his 
right,  puffing,  while  he  spoke,  from  a  short  German  pipe  a 
volume  of  smoke  into  Philip's  face. 

"Very  warm.  Be  so  good  as  to  smoke  into  the  face  of 
the  gentleman  on  the  other  side  of  you,"  returned  Philip, 
petulantly. 

"Ho,  ho!"  replied  the  passenger,  with  a  loud,  powerful 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  63 

laugh,  — the  laugh  of  a  strong  man.  "You  don't  take  to  the 
pipe  yet;  you  will  by  and  by,  when  you  have  known  the  cares 
and  anxieties  that  I  have  gone  through.  A  pipe! — it  is  a 
great  soother,  a  pleasant  comforter!  Blue  devils  fly  before 
its  honest  breath!  It  ripens  the  brain;  it  opens  the  heart; 
and  the  man  who  smokes  thinks  like  a  sage  and  acts  like  a 
Samaritan!  " 

Roused  from  his  revery  by  this  quaint  and  unexpected 
declamation,  Philip  turned  his  quick  glance  at  his  neighbour. 
He  saw  a  man  of  great  bulk  and  immense  physical  power,  — 
broad-shouldered,  deep-chested;  not  corpulent,  but  taking  the 
same  girth  from  bone  and  muscle  that  a  corpulent  man  does 
from  flesh.  He  wore  a  blue  coat,  frogged,  braided,  and  but- 
toned to  the  throat.  A  broad-brimmed  straw  hat,  set  on  one 
side,  gave  a  jaunty  appearance  to  a  countenance  which,  not- 
withstanding its  jovial  complexion  and  smiling  mouth,  had  in 
repose  a  bold  and  decided  character.  '  It  was  a  face  well 
suited  to  the  frame,  inasmuch  as  it  betokened  a  mind  capable 
of  wielding  and  mastering  the  brute  physical  force  of  body, 
—  light  eyes  of  piercing  intelligence,  rough  but  resolute  and 
striking  features,  and  a  jaw  of  iron.  There  was  thought, 
there  was  power,  there  was  passion  in  the  shaggy  brow,  the 
deep-ploughed  lines,  the  dilated  nostril,  and  the  restless  play 
of  the  lips.  Philip  looked  hard  and  grave,  and  the  man 
returned  his  look. 

"What  do  you  think  of  me,  young  gentleman?"  asked  the 
passenger,  as  he  replaced  the  pipe  in  his  mouth.  "  I  am  a 
fine-looking  man,   am  I  not? " 

"  You  seem  a  strange  one." 

"  Strange !  Ay,  I  puzzle  you,  as  T  have  done,  and  shall  do, 
many.  You  cannot  read  me  as  easily  as  I  can  read  you. 
Come,  shall  I  guess  at  your  character  and  circumstances? 
You  are  a  gentleman,  or  something  like  it,  by  birth;  that  the 
tone  of  your  voice  tells  me.  You  are  poor,  devilish  poor; 
that  the  hole  in  your  coat  assures  me.  You  are  proud,  fiery, 
discontented,  and  unhappy;  all  that  I  see  in  your  face.  It 
was  because  I  saw  those  signs  that  I  spoke  to  you.  I  volun- 
teer no  acquaintance  with  the  happy." 


64  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"I  dare  say  not;  for  if  you  know  all  the  unhappy  you  must 
have  a  sufficieutl}'  large  acquaintance,"  returned  Philip. 

"  Your  wit  is  beyond  your  years !  What  is  your  calling,  if 
the  question  does  not  offend  you?" 

"I  have  none  as  yet,"  said  Philip,  with  a  slight  sigh,  and  a 
deep  blush. 

"  More  's  the  pity ! "  grunted  the  smoker,  with  a  long, 
emphatic,  nasal  intonation.  "I  should  have  judged  that 
you  were  a  raw  recruit  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy." 

"Enemy!  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  In  other  words,  a  plant  growing  out  of  a  lawyer's  desk. 
I  will  explain.  There  is  one  class  of  spiders,  industrious, 
hard-working  octopedes,  who,  out  of  the  sweat  of  their  brains 
(I  take  it,  by  the  by,  that  a  spider  must  have  a  fine  craniolog- 
ical  development),  make  their  own  webs  and  catch  their  flies. 
There  is  another  class  of  spiders  who  have  no  stuff  in  them 
wherewith  to  make  webs ;  they  therefore  wander  about,  look- 
ing out  for  food  provided  by  the  toil  of  their  neighbours. 
Whenever  they  come  to  the  web  of  a  smaller  spider  whose 
larder  seems  well  supplied,  they  rush  upon  his  domain,  pursue 
him  to  his  hole,  eat  him  up  if  they  can,  reject  him  if  he  is  too 
tough  for  their  maws,  and  quietly  possess  themselves  of  all 
the  legs  and  wings  they  find  dangling  in  his  meshes.  These 
spiders  I  call  enemies;  the  world  calls  them  lawyers!  " 

Philip  laughed.     "  And  who  are  the  first  class  of  spiders?  " 

"Honest  creatures  who  openly  confess  that  they  live  upon 
flies.  Lawyers  fall  foul  upon  them,  under  pretence  of  deliv- 
ering flies  from  their  clutches.  They  are  wonderful  blood- 
suckers, these  lawyers,  in  spite  of  all  their  hypocrisy.  Ha! 
ha!     Ho!  ho!" 

And  with  a  loud,  rough  chuckle,  more  expressive  of  malig- 
nity than  mirth,  the  man  turned  himself  round,  applied  vigor- 
ously to  his  pipe,  and  sank  into  a  silence  which,  as  mile  after 
mile  glided  past  the  wheels,  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  break. 
Neither  was  Philip  inclined  to  be  communicative.  Con- 
siderations for  his  own  state  and  prospects  swallowed  up 
the  curiosity  he  might  otherwise  have  felt  as  to  his  singu- 
lar neighbour.     He  had  not  touched  food   since  the  early 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  65 

morning.  Anxiety  had  made  him  insensible  to  hunger  till 
he  arrived  at  Mr.  Plaskwith's;  and  then,  feverish,  sore,  and 
sick  at  heart,  the  sight  of  the  luxuries  gracing  the  tea-table 
only  revolted  him.  He  did  not  now  feel  hunger,  but  he  was 
fatigued  and  faint.  For  several  nights  the  sleep  which  youth 
can  so  ill  dispense  with  had  been  broken  and  disturbed;  and 
now,  the  rapid  motion  of  the  coach,  and  the  free  current  of  a 
fresher  and  more  exhausting  air  than  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  for  many  months,  began  to  operate  on  his  nerves  like  the 
intoxication  of  a  narcotic.  His  eyes  grew  heavy;  indistinct 
mists,  through  which  there  seemed  to  glare  the  various  squints 
of  the  female  Plaskwiths,  succeeded  the  gliding  road  and  the 
dancing  trees.  His  head  fell  on  his  bosom;  and  thence, 
instinctively  seeking  the  strongest  support  at  hand,  inclined 
towards  the  stout  smoker,  and  finally  nestled  itself  compos- 
edly on  that  gentleman's  shoulder.  The  passenger,  feeling 
this  unwelcome  and  unsolicited  weight,  took  the  pipe,  which 
he  had  already  thrice  refilled,  from  his  lips,  and  emitted  an 
angry  and  impatient  snort.  Finding  that  this  produced  no 
effect  and  that  the  load  grew  heavier  as  the  boy's  sleep  grew 
deeper,  he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice,  "Holla!  I  did  not  pay  my 
fare  to  be  your  bolster,  young  man ! "  and  shook  himself 
lustily.  Philip  started,  and  would  have  fallen  sidelong  from 
the  coach,  if  his  neighbour  had  not  griped  him  hard  with  a 
hand  that  could  have  kept  a  young  oak  from  falling. 
"Rouse  yourself!  you  might  have  had  an  ugly  tumble." 
Philip  muttered  something  inaudible,  between  sleeping  and 
waking,  and  turned  his  dark  eyes  towards  the  man;  in  that 
glance  there  was  so  much  unconscious  but  sad  and  deep  re- 
proach, that  the  passenger  felt  touched  and  ashamed.  Before 
however,  he  could  say  anything  in  apology  or  conciliation, 
Philip  had  again  fallen  asleep.  But  this  time,  as  if  he  had 
felt  and  resented  the  rebuff  he  had  received,  he  inclined  his 
head  away  from  his  neighbour  against  the  edge  of  a  box  on 
the  roof,  —  a  dangerous  pillow,  from  which  any  sudden  jolt 
might  transfer  him  to  the  road  below. 

"Poor   lad!   he  looks  pale!"   muttered   the   man,   and   he 
knocked  the  weed  from  his  pipe,  which  he  placed  gently  in 


66  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

his  pocket.  "Perhaps  the  smoke  was  too  much  for  him,  — he 
seems  ill  and  thin,"  and  he  took  the  boy's  long  lean  fingers 
in  his  own.  "His  cheek  is  hollow!  —  what  do  I  know  but  it 
may  be  with  fasting?  Pooh!  I  was  a  brute.  Hush,  coachee, 
hush!  don't  talk  so  loud,  and  be  d — d  to  you  —  he  will  cer- 
tainly be  off!"  and  the  man  softly  and  creepingly  encircled 
the  boy's  waist  with  his  huge  arm.  "Now,  then,  to  shift  his 
head-,  so  —  so, — that's  right."  Philip's  sallow  cheek  and 
long  hair  were  now  tenderly  lapped  on  the  soliloquist's  bosom, 
"Poor  wretch!  he  smiles;  perhaps  he  is  thinking  of  home, 
and  the  butterflies  he  ran  after  when  he  was  an  urchin  —  they 
never  come  back,  those  days  —  never,  never,  never!  I  think 
the  wind  veers  to  the  east;  he  may  catch  cold;  "  and  with  that, 
the  man,  sliding  the  head  for  a  moment,  and  with  the  tender- 
ness of  a  woman,  from  his  breast  to  his  shoulder,  unbuttoned 
his  coat,  as  he  replaced  the  weight,  no  longer  unwelcome,  in 
its  former  part,  and  drew  the  lappets  closely  round  the  slen- 
der frame  of  the  sleeper,  exposing  his  own  sturdy  breast  —  for 
he  wore  no  waistcoat  —  to  the  sharpening  air.  Thus  cradled 
on  that  stranger's  bosom,  wrapped  from  the  present  and 
dreaming  perhaps  —  while  a  heart  scorched  by  fierce  and  ter- 
rible struggles  with  life  and  sin  made  his  pillow  —  of  a  fair 
and  unsullied  future,  slept  the  fatherless  and  friendless  boy. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Constance.     My  life,  my  py,  my  food,  my  all  the  ■world, 
My  widow-comfort.  —  King  John. 

Amidst  the  glare  of  lamps,  the  rattle  of  carriages,  the 
lumbering  of  carts  and  wagons,  the  throng,  the  clamour,  the 
reeking  life  and  dissonant  roar  of  London,  Philip  woke  from 
his  happy  sleep.  He  woke  uncertain  and  confused,  and  saw 
strange  eyes  bent  on  him  kindly  and  watchfully. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  67 

"You  have  slept  well,  my  lad!"  said  the  passenger,  in  the 
deep  ringing  voice  which  made  itself  heard  above  all  the 
noises  around. 

"And  you  have  suffered  me  to  incommode  you  thus!  "  said 
Philip,  with  more  gratitude  in  his  voice  and  look  than,  per- 
haps, he  had  shown  to  any  one  out  of  his  own  family  since 
his  birth. 

"You  have  had  but  little  kindness  shown  you,  my  poor  boy, 
if  you  think  so  much  of  this." 

"No;  all  people  were  very  kind  to  me  once.  I  did  not 
value  it  then."  Here  the  coach  rolled  heavily  down  the  dark 
arch  of  the  inn-yard. 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  my  boy!  You  look  ill;  "  and  in  the 
dark  the  man  slipped  a  sovereign  into  Philip's  hand. 

"I  don't  want  money,  — though  I  thank  you  heartily  all  the 
same;  it  would  be  a  shame  at  my  age  to  be  a  beggar.  But 
can  you  think  of  an  employment  where  I  can  make  some- 
thing?—  what  they  offer  me  is  so  trifling.  I  have  a  mother 
and  a  brother  —  a  mere  child,  sir  —  at  home." 

"Employment!"  repeated  the  man;  and  as  the  coach  now 
stopped  at  the  tavern  door,  the  light  of  the  lamp  fell  full  on 
his  marked  face.  "Ay,  I  know  of  employment;  but  you 
should  apply  to  some  one  else  to  obtain  it  for  you !  As  for 
me,  it  is  not  likely  that  we  shall  meet  again !  " 

"I  am  sorry  for  that!  What  and  who  are  you?"  asked 
Philip,  with  a  rude  and  blunt  curiosity. 

,  "Me!  "  returned  the  i^assenger,  with  his  deep  laugh.  "Oh, 
I  know  some  people  who  call  me  an  honest  fellow.  Take  the 
employment  offered  you,  no  matter  how  trifling  the  wages; 
keep  out  of  harm's  way.     Good  night  to  you!  " 

So  saying,  he  quickly  descended  from  the  roof;  and  as  he 
was  directing  the  coachman  where  to  look  for  his  carpet-bag, 
Philip  saw  three  or  four  well-dressed  men  make  up  to  him, 
shake  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  welcome  him  with  great 
seeming  cordiality. 

Philip  sighed.  "He  has  friends,"  he  muttered  to  himself; 
and  paying  his  fare,  he  turned  from  the  bustling  yard,  and 
took  his  solitary  way  home. 


ba  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

A  -tveek  after  his  visit  to  E ,  Philip  was  settled  on  his 

probation  at  Mr.  Plaskwith's,  and  Mrs.  Morton's  health  was 
so  decidedly  worse,  that  she  resolved  to  know  her  fate,  and 
consult  a  physician.  The  oracle  was  at  first  ambiguous  in  its 
response.  But  when  Mrs.  Morton  said  firmly,  "  I  have  duties 
to  perform;  upon  your  candid  answer  rest  my  plans  with 
respect  to  my  children,  left,  if  I  die  suddenly,  destitute  in  the 
world,"  —  the  doctor  looked  hard  in  her  face,  saw  its  calm 
resolution,  and  replied  frankly,  — 

"Lose  no  time,  then,  in  arranging  your  plans;  life  is  uncer- 
tain with  all  —  with  you,  especially ;  you  may  live  some  time 
yet,  but  your  constitution  is  much  shaken;  I  fear  there  is 
water  on  the  chest.  No,  ma'am,  no  fee.  I  will  see  you 
again." 

The  physician  turned  to  Sidney,  who  played  with  his  watch- 
chain,  and  smiled  up  in  his  face. 

"And  that  child,  sir?"  said  the  mother,  wistfully,  forget- 
ting the  dread  fiat  pronounced  against  herself,  — "  he  is  so 
delicate! " 

"Xot  at  all,  ma'am, — a  very  fine  little  fellow;"  and  the 
doctor  patted  the  boy's  head,  and  abruptly  vanished. 

"Ah,  Mamma,  I  wish  you  would  ride;  I  wish  you  would 
take  the  white  pony !  " 

"Poor  boy!  poor  boy!  "  muttered  the  mother;  "I  must  not 
be  selfish."  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  began 
to  think! 

Could  she,  thus  doomed,  resolve  on  declining  her  brother's 
offer?  Did  it  not  at  least  secure  bread  and  shelter  to  her 
child?  When  she  was  dead,  might  not  a  tie  between  the 
uncle  and  nephew  be  snapped  asunder?  Would  he  be  as  kind 
to  the  boy  as  now,  when  she  could  commend  him  with  her  own 
lips  to  his  care,  when  she  could  place  that  precious  charge 
into  his  hands?  With  these  thoughts,  she  formed  one  of 
those  resolutions  which  have  all  the  strength  of  self-sacri- 
ficing love.  She  would  put  the  boy  from  her,  her  last  solace 
and  comfort ;  she  would  die  alone,  —  alone ! 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  69 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Constance.     When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven, 
I  shall  not  know  him.  — King  John. 

One  evening,  the  shop  closed  and  the  business  done,  Mr. 
Eoger  Morton  and  his  family  sat  in  that  snug  and  comfortable 
retreat  which  generally  backs  the  warerooms  of  an  English 
tradesman.  Happy  often,  and  indeed  happy,  is  that  little 
sanctuary,  near  to  and  yet  remote  from  the  toil  and  care  of 
the  busy  mart  from  which  its  homely  ease  and  peaceful  secu- 
rity are  drawn.  Glance  down  those  rows  of  silenced  shops 
in  a  town  at  night,  and  picture  the  glad  and  quiet  groups 
gathered  within  over  that  nightly  and  social  meal  which  cus- 
tom has  banished  from  the  more  indolent  tribes  who  neither 
toil  nor  spin.  Placed  between  the  two  extremes  of  life,  the 
tradesman  who  ventures  not  beyond  his  means  and  sees  clear 
books  and  sure  gains,  with  enough  of  occupation  to  give 
healthful  excitement,  enough  of  fortune  to  greet  each  new- 
born child  without  a  sigh,  might  be  envied  alike  by  those 
above  and  those  below  his  state  —  if  the  restless  heart  of  man 
ever  envied  Content! 

"And  so  the  little  boy  is  not  to  come?"  said  Mrs.  Morton, 
as  she  crossed  her  knife  and  fork  and  pushed  away  her  plate, 
in  token  that  she  had  done  supper. 

"I  don't  know.  Children,  go  to  bed;  there,  there,  that 
will  do!  Good  night!  Catherine  does  not  say  either  yes  or 
no.     She  wants  time  to  consider." 

"It  was  a  very  handsome  offer  on  our  part;  some  folks 
never  know  when  they  are  well  off." 

"  That  is  very  true,  my  dear,  and  you  are  a  very  sensible 
person.  Kate  herself  might  have  been  an  honest  woman, 
and,  what  is  more,  a  very  rich  woman,  by  this  time.  She 
might  have  married  Spencer,  the  young  brewer,  —  an  excel- 
lent man,  and  well  to  do !  " 

"Spencer!  I  don't  remember  him." 


70  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"No?  after  she  went  off,  lie  retired  from  business  and  left 
the  place.  I  don't  know  what's  become  of  him.  He  was 
mightily  taken  with  her,  to  be  sure.  She  was  uncommonly 
handsome,  my  sister  Catherine." 

"Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  Mr.  Morton,"  said  the 
wife,  who  was  very  much  marked  with  the  small-pox.  "  We 
all  have  ovir  temptations  and  trials;  this  is  a  vale  of  tears,  and 
without  grace  we  are  whited  sepulchres." 

Mr.  Morton  mixed  his  brandy  and  water,  and  moved  his 
chair  into  its  customary  corner. 

"You  saw  your  brother's  letter,"  said  he,  after  a  pause; 
"he  gives  young  Philip  a  very  good  character." 

"The  human  heart  is  very  deceitful,"  replied  Mrs.  Morton, 
who,  by  the  way,  spoke  through  her  nose.  "  Fray  Heaven  he 
may  be  what  he  seems;  but  what 's  bred  in  the  bone  comes  out 
in  the  flesh." 

"We  must  hope  the  best,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  mildly;  "and 
—  put  another  lump  into  the  grog,  my  dear." 

"  It  is  a  mercy,  I  'm  thinking,  that  we  did  n't  have  the  other 
little  boy.  I  dare  say  he  has  never  even  been  taught  his  cate- 
chism, —  them  people  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  mother. 
And  besides,  it  would  have  been  very  awkward,  Mr.  M. ;  we 
could  never  have  said  who  he  was,  and  I  've  no  doubt  Miss 
Pryinall  would  have  been  very  curious." 

"  Miss  Pryinall  be  —  "  Mr.  Morton  checked  himself,  took 
a  large  draught  of  the  brandy  and  water,  and  added,  "  Miss 
Pryinall  wants  to  have  a  finger  in  everybody's  pie." 

"  But  she  buys  a  deal  of  flannel,  and  does  great  good  to  the 
town;  it  was  she  who  found  out  that  Mrs.  Giles  was  no  better 
than  she  should  be." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Giles!  she  came  to  the  workhouse." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Giles,  indeed!  I  wonder,  Mr.  Morton,  that 
you,  a  married  man  with  a  family,  should  say,  p^or  Mrs. 
Giles!" 

"  My  dear,  when  people  who  have  been  well  off  come  to  the 
workhouse,  they  may  be  called  poor,  — but  that 's  neither  here 
nor  there;  only,  if  the  boy  does  come  to  us,  we  must  look 
sharp  upon  Miss  Pryinall." 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  7X 

*'  I  hope  he  won't  come,  —  it  will  be  very  unpleasant.  And 
when  a  man  has  a  wife  and  family,  the  less  he  meddles  with 
other  folks  and  their  little  ones  the  better;  for  as  the  Scrip- 
ture says,  '  A  man  shall  cleave  to  his  wife  and  — '  " 

Here  a  sharp,  shrill  ring  at  the  bell  was  heard,  and  Mrs. 
Morton  broke  off  into  — 

"Well,  I  declare!  at  this  hour!  who  can  that  be?  And  all 
gone  to  bed!     Do  go  and  see,  Mr.  Morton." 

Somewhat  reluctantly  and  slowly  Mr.  Morton  rose;  and 
proceeding  to  the  passage,  unbarred  the  door.  A  brief  and 
muttered  conversation  followed,  to  the  great  irritability  of 
Mrs.  Morton,  who  stood  in  the  passage,  the  candle  in  her 
hand. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  M.  ?  " 

Mr.  Morton  turned  back,  looking  agitated. 

"Where's  my  hat?  oh,  here.  My  sister  is  come,  at  the 
inn." 

"Gracious  me!  She  does  not  go  for  to  say  she  is  your 
sister?" 

"No,  no:  here  's  her  note,  — calls  herself  a  lady  that 's  ill. 
I  shall  be  back  soon." 

"  She  can't  come  here;  she  sha'  n't  come  here,  Mr.  M.  I  'm 
an  honest  woman ;  she  can't  come  here.     You  understand  —  " 

Mr.  Morton  had  naturally  a  stern  countenance,  stern  to 
every  one  but  his  wife.  The  shrill  tone  to  which  he  was  so 
long  accustomed  jarred  then  on  his  heart  as  well  as  his  ear. 
He  frowned. 

"  Pshaw !  woman,  you  have  no  feeling ! "  said  he,  and 
walked  out  of  the  house,  pulling  his  hat  over  his  brows. 

That  was  the  only  rude  speech  Mr.  Morton  had  ever  made 
to  his  better  half.  She  treasured  it  up  in  her  heart  and  mem- 
ory ;  it  was  associated  with  the  sister  and  the  child,  —  and  she 
was  not  a  woman  who  ever  forgave. 

Mr.  Morton  walked  rapidly  through  the  still,  moon-lit 
streets  till  he  reached  the  inn.  A  club  was  held  that  night 
in  one  of  the  rooms  below ;  and  as  he  crossed  the  threshold, 
the  sound  of  "  hip,  hip,  hurrah  1 "  mingled  with  the  stamping 
of  feet  and  the  jingling  of  glasses,  saluted  his  entrance.     He 


72  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

was  a  stiff,  sober,  respectable  man,  —  a  man,  who  except  at 
elections  —  he  was  a  great  politician  —  mixed  in  none  of  the 
revels  of  his  more  boisterous  townsmen.  The  sounds,  the 
spot,  were  ungenial  to  him.  He  paused,  and  the  colour  of 
shame  rose  to  his  brow.  He  was  ashamed  to  be  there, 
ashamed  to  meet  the  desolate  and  as  he  believed  erring 
sister. 

A  pretty  maid-servant,  heated  and  flushed  with  orders  and 
compliments,  crossed  his  path  with  a  tray  full  of  glasses. 

"There  's  a  lady  come  by  the  Telegraph?  " 

"Yes,  sir,  upstairs,  No.  2,  Mr.  Morton." 

Mr.  Morton !  He  shrank  at  the  sound  of  his  own  name. 
"My  wife's  right,"  he  muttered.  "After  all,  this  is  more 
unpleasant  than  I  thought  for." 

The  slight  stairs  shook  under  his  hasty  tread.  He  opened 
the  door  of  No.  2,  and  that  Catherine,  whom  he  had  last  seen 
at  her  age  of  gay  sixteen,  radiant  with  bloom,  and  but  for  her 
air  of  pride  the  model  for  a  Hebe;  that  Catherine,  old  ere 
youth  was  gone,  pale,  faded,  the  dark  hair  silvered  over,  the 
cheeks  hollow,  and  the  eye  dim,  — that  Catherine  fell  upon  his 
breast ! 

"God  bless  you,  brother!  How  kind  to  come!  How  long 
since  we  have  met!  " 

"Sit  down,  Catherine,  my  dear  sister.  You  are  faint;  you 
are  very  much  changed,  —  very.  I  should  not  have  known 
you." 

"  Brother,  I  have  brought  my  boy ;  it  is  painful  to  part  from 
him;  very,  very  painful;  but  it  is  right,  and  God's  will  be 
done."  She  turned  as  she  spoke  towards  a  little,  deformed, 
rickety  dwarf  of  a  sofa,  that  seemed  to  hide  itself  in  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  low,  gloomy  room ;  and  Morton  followed 
her.  With  one  hand  she  removed  the  shawl  that  she  had 
thrown  over  the  child,  and  placing  the  forefinger  of  the  other 
upon  her  lips  —  lips  that  smiled  then  —  she  whispered,  "  "We 
will  not  wake  him,  he  is  so  tired;  but  I  would  not  put  him  to 
bed  till  you  had  seen  him." 

And  there  slept  poor  Sidney,  his  fair  cheek  pillowed  on  his 
arm;  the  soft,  silky  ringlets  thrown  from  the  delicate  and 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  73 

unclouded  brow ;  the  natural  bloom  increased  by  warmth  and 
travel;  the  lovely  face  so  innocent  and  hushed;  the  breathing 
so  gentle  and  regular,  as  if  never  broken  by  a  sigh. 

Mr.  Morton  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

There  was  something  very  touching  in  the  contrast  between 
that  wakeful,  anxious,  forlorn  woman  and  the  slumber  of  the 
unconscious  boy;  and  in  that  moment,  what  breast  upon 
which  the  light  of  Christian  pity,  of  natural  affection,  had 
ever  dawned,  would,  even  supposing  the  world's  judgment 
were  true,  have  recalled  Catherine's  reputed  error?  There  is 
so  divine  a  holiness  in  the  love  of  a  mother,  that,  no  matter 
how  the  tie  that  binds  her  to  the  child  was  formed,  she 
becomes  as  it  were  consecrated  and  sacred,  and  the  past  is 
forgotten  and  the  world  and  its  harsh  verdict  swept  away, 
when  that  love  alone  is  visible;  and  the  God  who  watches 
over  the  little  one  sheds  His  smile  over  the  human  deputy, 
in  whose  tenderness  there  breathes  His  own ! 

"You  will  be  kind  to  him,  will  you  not?"  said  Mrs. 
Morton;  and  the  appeal  was  made  with  that  trustful,  almost 
cheerful  tone  which  implies,  "Who  would  not  be  kind  to  a 
thing  so  fair  and  helpless?"  "He  is  very  sensitive  and  very 
docile;  you  will  never  have  occasion  to  say  a  hard  word  to 
him,  never !     You  have  children  of  your  own,  brother !  " 

"He  is  a  beautiful  boy,  beautiful.  I  will  be  a  father  to 
him!" 

As  he  spoke,  the  recollection  of  his  wife  —  sour,  querulous, 
austere  —  came  over  him ;  but  he  said  to  himself,  "  She  must 
take  to  such  a  child,  — women  always  take  to  beauty." 

He  bent  down  and  gently  pressed  his  lips  to  Sidney's  fore- 
head. Mrs.  Morton  replaced  the  shawl,  and  drew  her  brother 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"Ajid  now,"  she  said,  colouring  as  she  spoke,  "I  must  see 
your  wife,  brother;  there  is  so  much  to  say  about  a  child  that 
only  a  woman  will  recollect.  Is  she  very  good-tempered  and 
kind,  your  wife?  You  know  I  never  saw  her;  you  married 
after— after  I  left." 

"She  is  a  very  worthy  woman,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  clearing 
his  throat,  "  and  brought  me  some  money.     She  has  a  will  of 


74  JsIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

her  own,  as  most  women  have;  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there.  She  is  a  good  wife  as  wives  go;  and  prudent  and 
painstaking,  — 1  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  her." 

*' Brother,  I  have  one  favour  to  request,  — a  great  favour." 

"Anything  I  can  do  in  the  way  of  money?  " 

"  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  money.  I  can't  live  long,  — 
don't  shake  your  head,  —  I  can't  live  long.  I  have  no  fear 
for  Philip,  he  has  so  much  spirit,  such  strength  of  character; 
but  that  child !  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  him  altogether.  Let 
me  stay  in  this  town  —  I  can  lodge  anywhere ;  but  to  see  him 
sometimes,  to  know  I  shall  be  in  reach  if  he  is  ill  —  let  me 
stay  here,  let  me  die  here !  " 

"  You  must  not  talk  so  sadly.  You  are  young  yet,  — 
younger  than  I  am;  /  don't  think  of  dying." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  but  —  " 

"Well,  well,"  interrupted  Mr.  Morton,  who  began  to  fear 
his  feelings  would  hurry  him  into  some  promise  which  his 
wife  would  not  suffer  him  to  keep;  "you  shall  talk  to  Mar- 
garet,—  that  is,  Mrs.  Morton;  I  will  get  her  to  see  you, — 
yes,  I  think  I  can  contrive  that;  and  if  you  can  arrange  with 
her  to  stay  —  but  you  see,  as  she  brought  the  money,  and  is  a 
very  particular  woman  —  " 

"I  will  see  her;  thank  you,  thank  you;  she  cannot  refuse 
me. 

"And,  brother,"  resumed  Mrs.  Morton,  after  a  short  pause, 
and  speaking  in  a  firm  voice,  "and  is  it  possible  that  you  dis- 
believe my  story;  that  you,  like  all  the  rest,  consider  my  chil- 
dren the  sons  of  shame?" 

There  was  an  honest  earnestness  in  Catherine's  voice  as  she 
spoke  that  might  have  convinced  many ;  but  Mr.  Morton  was 
a  man  of  facts,  a  practical  man,  —  a  man  who  believed  that 
law  was  always  right,  and  that  the  improbable  was  never  true. 

He  looked  down  as  he  answered,  "  I  think  you  have  been  a 
very  ill-used  woman,  Catherine,  and  that  is  all  I  can  say  on 
the  matter;  let  us  drop  the  subject." 

"No!  I  was  not  ill-used;  my  husband  —  yes,  my  husband 
—  was  noble  and  generous  from  first  to  last.  It  was  for  the 
sake  of  his  children's  prospects,  for  the  expectations  they, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  75 

through  him,  might  derive  from  his  proud  uncle,  that  he  con- 
cealed our  marriage.  Do  not  blame  Philip;  do  not  condemn 
the  dead." 

"I  don't  want  to  blame  any  one,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  rather 
angrily.  "I  am  a  plain  man,  a  tradesman,  and  can  only  go 
by  what  in  my  class  seems  fair  and  honest,  which  I  can't 
think  Mr.  Beaufort's  conduct  was,  put  it  how  you  will.  If 
he  marries  you  as  you  think,  he  gets  rid  of  a  witness,  he  de- 
stroys a  certificate,  and  he  dies  without  a  will.  However,  all 
that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  You  do  quite  right  not  to  take 
the  name  of  Beaufort,  since  it  is  an  uncommon  name,  and 
would  always  make  the  story  public.  Least  said,  soonest 
mended.  You  must  always  consider  that  your  children  will 
be  called  natural  children,  and  have  their  own  way  to  make. 
No  harm  in  that!  Warm  day  for  your  journey."  Catherine 
sighed,  and  wiped  her  eyes;  she  no  longer  reproached  the 
world  since  the  son  of  her  own  mother  disbelieved  her. 

The  relations  talked  together  for  some  minutes  on  the  past, 
the  present;  but  there  was  embarrassment  and  constraint  on 
both  sides, — it  was  so  difficult  to  avoid  one  subject, — and 
after  sixteen  years  of  absence,  there  is  little  left  in  common, 
even  between  those  who  once  played  together  round  their  par- 
ents' knees.  Mr.  Morton  was  glad  at  last  to  find  an  excuse 
in  Catherine's  fatigue  to  leave  her.  "Cheer  up,  and  take  a 
glass  of  something  warm  before  you  go  to  bed.  Good  night !  " 
—  these  were  his  parting  words. 

Long  was  the  conference,  and  sleepless  the  couch,  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Morton.  At  first  that  estimable  lady  positively 
declared  she  would  not  and  could  not  visit  Catherine  (as  to 
receiving  her,  that  was  out  of  the  question) ;  but  she  secretly 
resolved  to  give  up  that  point  in  order  to  insist  with  greater 
strength  upon  another,  — namely,  the  impossibility  of  Cathe- 
rine remaining  in  the  town,  —  such  concession  for  the  purpose 
of  resistance  being  a  very  common  and  sagacious  policy  with 
married  ladies.  Accordingly,  when  suddenly,  and  with  a  good 
grace,  Mrs.  Morton  appeared  affected  by  her  husband's  elo- 
quence, and  said,  "Well,  poor  thing!  if  she  is  so  ill,  and  you 
wish  it  so  much,  I  will  call  to-morrow,"  Mr.  Morton  felt  his 


76  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

heart  softened  towards  the  many  excellent  reasons  which  his 
wife  urged  against  allowing  Catherine  to  reside  in  the  town. 
He  was  a  political  character;  he  had  many  enemies;  the  story 
of  his  seduced  sister,  now  forgotten,  would  certainly  be  raked 
up;  it  would  affect  his  comfort,  perhaps  his  trade,  certainly 
his  eldest  daughter,  who  was  now  thirteen;  it  would  be  im- 
possible then  to  adopt  the  plan  hitherto  resolved  upon,  — of 
passing  off  Sidney  as  the  legitimate  orphan  of  a  distant  rela- 
tion; it  would  be  made  a  great  handle  fcr  gossip  by  Miss 
Pryinall.  Added  to  all  these  reasons,  one  not  less  strong 
occurred  to  Mr.  Morton  himself,  —  the  uncommon  and  merci- 
less rigidity  of  his  wife  would  render  all  the  other  women  in 
the  town  very  glad  of  any  topic  that  would  humble  her  own 
sense  of  immaculate  propriety.  Moreover,  he  saw  that  if 
Catherine  did  remain,  it  would  be  a  perpetual  source  of  irri- 
tation in  his  own  home;  he  was  a  man  who  liked  an  easy  life, 
and  avoided  as  far  as  possible  all  food  for  domestic  worry. 
And  thus,  when  at  length  the  wedded  pair  turned  back  to 
back  and  composed  themselves  to  sleep,  the  conditions  of 
peace  were  settled,  and  the  weaker  party,  as  usual  in  diplo- 
macy, sacrificed  to  the  interests  of  the  united  powers. 

After  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Morton  sallied  out 
on  her  husband's  arm.  Mr.  ^Morton  was  rather  a  handsome 
man,  with  an  air  and  look  grave,  composed,  severe,  that  had 
tended  much  to  raise  his  character  in  the  town. 

Mrs.  Morton  was  short,  wiry,  and  bony.  She  had  won  her 
husband  by  making  desperate  love  to  him,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
dower  that  enabled  him  to  extend  his  business,  new-f j-ont  as 
well  as  new-stock  his  shop,  and  rise  into  the  very  first  rank  of 
tradesmen  in  his  native  town.  He  still  believed  that  she  was 
excessively  fond  of  him,  —  a  common  delusion  of  husbands, 
especially  when  henpecked.  Mrs.  Morton  was,  perhaps,  fond 
of  him  in  her  own  way;  for  though  her  heart  was  not  warm, 
there  may  be  a  great  deal  of  fondness  with  very  little  feeling. 
The  worthy  lady  was  now  clothed  in  her  best.  She  had  a 
proper  pride  in  showing  the  rewards  that  belong  to  female 
virtue.  Flowers  adorned  her  Leghorn  bonnet,  and  her  green 
silk  gown  boasted  four  flounces,  —  such,  then,  was,  I  am  told, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  77 

the  fashion.  She  wore  also  a  very  handsome  black  shawl, 
extremely  heavy,  though  the  day  was  oppressively  hot,  and 
with  a  deep  border;  a  smart  sevigne  brooch  of  yellow  topazes 
glittered  in  her  breast;  a  huge  gilt  serpent  glared  from  her 
waistband;  her  hair,  or  more  properly  speaking  her  front, 
was  tortured  into  very  tight  curls,  and  her  feet  into  very  tight 
half-laced  boots-,  from  which  the  fragrance  of  new  leather  had 
not  yet  departed.  It  was  this  last  infliction,  for  il  fant 
souffrirpoiir  etre  belle,  which  somewhat  yet  more  acerbated  the 
ordinary  acid  of  Mrs.  Morton's  temper.  The  sweetest  disposi- 
tion is  ruffled  when  the  shoe  pinches ;  and  it  so  happened  that 
Mrs.  Roger  Morton  was  one  of  those  ladies  who  always  have 
chilblains  in  the  winter  and  corns  in  the  summer. 

*'  So  you  say  your  sister  is  a  beauty?  " 

"  Was  a  beauty,  Mrs.  M.,  — was  a  beauty.     People  alter." 

"  A  bad  conscience,  Mr.  Morton,  is  —  " 

"My  dear,  can't  you  walk  faster?" 

"  It  you  had  my  corns,  Mr.  Morton,  you  would  not  talk  in 
that  way ! " 

The  happy  pair  sank  into  silence,  only  broken  by  sundry 
"How  d'ye  dos?"  and  "Good  mornings!"  interchanged  with 
their  friends,  till  they  arrived  at  the  inn, 

"Let  us  go  up  quickly,"  said  Mrs  Morton. 

And  quiet,  quiet  to  gloom,  did  the  inn,  so  noisy  over-night, 
seem  by  morning,  — the  shutters  partially  closed  to  keep  out 
the  sun,  the  taproom  deserted,  the  passage  smelling  of  stale 
smoke;  an  elderly  dog,  lazily  snapping  at  the  flies,  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase;  not  a  soul  to  be  seen  at  the  bar.  The  hus- 
band and  wife,  glad  to  be  unobserved,  crept  on  tiptoe  up  the 
stairs,  and  entered  Catherine's  apartment. 

Catherine  was  seated  on  the  sofa,  and  Sidney  —  dressed,  like 
Mrs.  Eoger  Morton,  to  look  his  prettiest,  nor  yet  aware  of  the 
change  that  awaited  his  destiny,  but  pleased  at  the  excitement 
of  seeing  new  friends,  as  handsome  children  sure  of  praise  and 
petting  usually  are  —  stood  by  her  side. 

"My  wife,  Catherine,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  Catherine  rose 
eagerly,  and  gazed  searchingly  on  her  sister-in-law's  hard 
face.    She  swallowed  the  con^nllsive  rising  at  her  heart  as  she 


78  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

gazed,  and  stretched  out  both  her  hands,  not  so  much  to  wel- 
come as  to  plead.  Mrs.  Roger  Morton  drew  herself  up,  and 
then  dropped  a  courtesy,  —  it  was  an  involuntary  piece  of  good 
breeding;  it  was  extorted  by  the  noble  countenance,  the  mat- 
ronly mien  of  Catherine,  different  from  what  she  had  antici- 
pated, —  she  dropped  the  courtesy,  and  Catherine  took  her 
hand  and  pressed  it. 

"This  is  my  son;"  she  turned  away  her  head.  Sidney 
advanced  towards  his  protectress  who  was  to  be,  and  Mrs. 
Roger  muttered,  — 

"Come  here,  my  dear!     A  fine  little  boy!  " 

"  As  fine  a  child  as  ever  I  saw ! "  said  Mr.  Morton,  heartily, 
as  he  took  Sidney  on  his  lap,  and  stroked  down  his  golden 
hair. 

This  displeased  Mrs  Roger  Morton,  but  she  sat  herself 
down,  and  said  it  was  "very  warm." 

"Now  go  to  that  lady,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  "Is 
she  not  a  very  nice  lady;  don't  you  think  yon  shall  like  her 
very  much?" 

Sidney,  the  best-mannered  child  in  the  world,  went  boldly 
up  to  Mrs.  Morton,  as  he  was  bid.  Mrs.  Morton  was  embar- 
rassed. Some  folks  are  so  with  other  folks'  children :  a  child 
either  removes  all  constraint  from  a  party,  or  it  increases  the 
constraint  tenfold.  Mrs.  Morton,  however,  forced  a  smile, 
and  said,  "I  have  a  little  boy  at  home  about  your  age." 

"Have  you?"  exclaimed  Catherine,  eagerly;  and  as  if  that 
confession  made  them  friends  at  once,  she  drew  a  chair  close 
to  her  sister-in-law's.     " My  brother  has  told  you  all?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And  I  shall  stay  here,  in  the  town  somewhere,  and  see 
him  sometimes?  " 

Mrs.  Roger  Morton  glanced  at  her  husband,  her  husband 
glanced  at  the  door,  and  Catherine's  quick  eye  turned  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"Mr.  Morton  will  explain,  ma'am,"  said  the  wife. 

"E-hem!  Catherine,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  that  is  out  of  the 
question,"  began  Mr.  Morton,  who,  when  fairly  put  to  it, 
could  be  businesslike  enough.    "  You  see  bygones  are  bygones, 


NIGHT   AXD  MORNING.  79 

and  it  is  no  use  raking  them  up;  but  many  people  in  the  town 
will  recollect  you." 

"No  one  will  see  me,  — no  one,  but  you  and  Sidney." 

"It  will  be  sure  to  creep  out;  won't  it,  Mrs.  Morton?  " 

"Quite  sure.  Indeed,  ma'am,  it  is  impossible.  Mr.  Morton 
is  so  very  respectable,  and  his  neighbours  pay  so  much  atten- 
tion to  all  he  does ;  and  then,  if  we  have  an  election  in  the 
autumn,  you  see,  ma'am,  he  has  a  great  stake  in  the  place, 
and  is  a  public  character." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  "But 
I  say,  Catherine,  can  your  little  boy  go  into  the  other  room 
for  a  moment?  Margaret,  suppose  you  take  him  and  make 
friends." 

Delighted  to  throw  on  her  husband  the  burden  of  explana- 
tion, which  she  had  originally  meant  to  have  all  the  import- 
ance of  giving  herself  in  her  most  proper  and  patronizing 
manner,  INIrs.  Morton  twisted  her  fingers  into  the  boy's  hand, 
and  opening  the  door  that  communicated  with  the  bedroom, 
left  the  brother  and  sister  alone;  and  then  Mr.  Morton,  with 
more  tact  and  delicacy  than  might  have  been  expected  from 
him,  began  to  soften  to  Catherine  the  hardship  of  the  separa- 
tion he  urged.  He  dwelt  principally  on  what  was  best  for  the 
child.  Boys  were  so  brutal  in  their  intercourse  with  each 
other.  He  had  even  thought  it  better  to  represent  Philip  to 
Mr.  Plaskwith  as  a  more  distant  relation  than  he  was ;  and  he 
begged,  by  the  by,  that  Catherine  would  tell  Philip  to  take 
the  hint.  But  as  for  Sidney,  sooner  or  later,  he  would  go  to 
a  day-school,  have  companions  of  his  own  age;  if  his  birth 
were  known,  he  would  be  exposed  to  many  mortifications,  — 
so  much  better,  and  so  very  easy,  to  bring  him  up  as  the  law- 
ful, that  is  the  legal,  offspring  of  some  distant  relation. 

"And,"  cried  poor  Catherine,  clasping  her  hands,  "when  T 
am  dead,  is  he  never  to  know  that  I  was  his  mother?" 

The  anguish  of  that  question  thrilled  the  heart  of  the 
listener.  He  was  affected  below  all  the  surface  that  worldly 
thoughts  and  habits  had  laid,  stratum  by  stratum,  over  the 
humanities  within.  He  threw  his  arms  round  Catherine,  and 
strained  her  to  his  breast. 


80  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"No,  my  sister,  my  poor  sister,  he  shall  know  it  when  he 
is  old  enough  to  understand,  and  to  keep  his  own  secret.  He 
shall  know,  too,  how  we  all  loved  and  prized  you  once;  how 
young  you  were,  how  flattered  and  tempted;  how  you  were 
deceived,  for  I  know  that,  —  on  my  soul  I  do !  —  I  know  it  was 
not  your  fault.  He  shall  know,  too,  how  fondly  you  loved 
your  child,  and  how  you  sacrificed,  for  his  sake,'  the  very 
comfort  of  being  near  him.     He  shall  know  it  all,  all !  " 

"My  brother,  my  brother,  I  resign  him;  I  am  content. 
God  reward  you.  I  will  go,  —  go  quickly.  I  know  you  will 
take  care  of  him  now." 

"And  you  see,"  resumed  Mr.  Morton,  re-settling  himself, 
and  wiping  his  eyes,  "it  is  best,  between  you  and  me,  that 
Mrs.  Morton  should  have  her  own  way  in  this.  She  is  a  very 
good  woman,  very ;  but  it 's  prudent  not  to  vex  her.  You 
may  come  in  now,  Mrs.  Morton." 

Mrs.  Morton  and  Sidney  reappeared. 

""We  have  settled  it  all,"  said  the  husband.  "When  can 
we  have  him?  " 

"Not  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Roger  Morton;  "you  see,  ma'am, 
we  must  get  his  bed  ready,  and  his  sheets  well  aired.  I  am 
very  particular." 

"Certainly,  certainly.    "Will  he  sleep  alone?  —  pardon  me." 

"He  shall  have  a  room  to  himself,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  "Eh, 
my  dear?  Next  to  Martha's.  Martha  is  our  parlour-maid,  — 
very  good-natured  girl,  and  fond  of  children." 

Mrs.  Morton  looked  grave,  thought  a  moment,  and  said, 
"Yes,  he  can  have  that  room." 

"Who  can  have  that  room?"  asked  Sidney,  innocently. 

"  You,  my  dear, "  replied  Mr.  Morton. 

"And  where  will  Mamma  sleep?  I  must  sleep  near 
Mamma." 

"Mamma  is  going  away,"  said  Catherine,  in  a  firm  voice, 
in  which  the  despair  would  only  have  been  felt  by  the  acute 
ear  of  sympathy,  — "  going  away  for  a  little  time ;  but  this 
gentleman  and  lady  will  be  very  —  very  kind  to  3-ou." 

"We  will  do  our  best,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  INIorton. 

And  as  she  spoke,  a  sudden  light  broke  on  the  boy's  mind; 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  81 

he  uttered  a  loud  cry,  broke  from  his  aunt,  rushed  to  his 
mother's  breast,  and  hid  his  face  there,  sobbing  bitterly. 

"I  am  afraid  he  has  been  very  much  spoiled,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Roger  Morton.  "  I  don't  think  we  need  stay  longer,  — 
it  will  look  suspicious.  Good  morning,  ma'am ;  we  shall  be 
ready  to-morrow." 

"Good-by,  Catherine,"  said  Mr.  Morton;  and  he  added,  as 
he  kissed  her,  "be  of  good  heart;  I  will  come  up  by  myself 
and  spend  the  evening  with  you." 

It  was  the  night  after  this  interview.  Sidney  had  gone  to 
his  new  home;  they  had  all  been  kind  to  him,  — Mr.  Morton, 
the  children,  Martha  the  parlour-maid.  Mrs.  Roger  herself 
had  given  him  a  large  slice  of  bread  and  jam,  but  had  looked 
gloomy  all  the  rest  of  the  evening,  because,  like  a  dog  in  a 
strange  place,  he  refused  to  eat.  His  little  heart  was  full, 
and  his  eyes,  swimming  with  tears,  were  turned  at  every  mo- 
ment to  the  door;  but  he  did  not  show  the  violent  grief  that 
might  have  been  expected.  His  very  desolation,  amidst  the 
unfamiliar  faces,  awed  and  chilled  him.  But  when  Martha 
took  him  to  bed  and  undressed  him,  and  he  knelt  down  to  say 
his  prayers,  and  came  to  the  words,  "Pray  God  bless  dear 
Mamma,  and  make  me  a  good  child,"  his  heart  could  contain 
its  load  no  longer,  and  he  sobbed  wdth  a  passion  that  alarmed 
the  good-natured  servant.  She  had  been  used,  however,  to 
children,  and  she  soothed  and  caressed  him,  and  told  him  of 
all  the  nice  things  he  would  do,  and  the  nice  toys  he  would 
have;  and  at  last,  silenced  if  not  convinced,  his  eyes  closed, 
and,  the  tears  yet  wet  on  their  lashes,  he  fell  asleep. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Catherine  should  return  home 
that  night  by  a  late  coach,  which  left  the  town  at  twelve.  It 
was  already  past  eleven.  Mrs.  Morton  had  retired  to  bed; 
and  her  husband,  who  had,  according  to  his  wont,  lingered 
behind  to  smoke  a  cigar  over  his  last  glass  of  brandy  and 
water,  had  just  thrown  aside  the  stump  and  was  winding  up 
his  watch,  when  he  heard  a  low  tap  at  his  window.  He  stood 
mute  and  alarmed,  for  the  window  opened  on  a  back  lane, 
dark  and  solitary  at  night,  and  from  the  heat  of  the  w^eather 
the  iron-cased   shutter  was  not  yet  closed;   the  sound  was 


82  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

repeated,  and  he  heard  a  faint  voice.  He  glanced  at  the 
poker,  and  then  cautiously  moved  to  the  window,  and  looked 
forth.     "Who's  there?" 

"It  is  I,  it  is  Catherine!  I  cannot  go  without  seeing  my 
boy.     I  must  see  him,  I  must,  once  more !  " 

"My  dear  sister,  the  place  is  shut  up;  it  is  impossible. 
God  bless  me,  if  Mrs.  Morton  should  hear  you !  " 

"  I  have  walked  before  this  window  for  hours ;  I  have  waited 
till  all  is  hushed  in  your  house,  till  no  one,  not  even  a  menial, 
need  see  the  mother  stealing  to  the  bed  of  her  child.  Brother, 
by  the  memory  of  our  own  mother,  I  command  you  to  let  me 
look  for  the  last  time  upon  my  boy's  face !  " 

As  Catherine  said  this,  standing  in  that  lonely  street,  — 
darkness  and  solitude  below,  God  and  the  stars  above,  —  there 
was  about  her  a  majesty  which  awed  the  listener.  Though 
she  was  so  near,  her  features  were  not  very  clearly  visible; 
but  her  attitude,  her  hand  raised  aloft,  the  outline  of  her 
wasted,  but  still  commanding,  form,  were  more  impressive 
from  the  shadowy  dimness  of  the  air, 

"Come  round,  Catherine,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  after  a  pause; 
"I  will  admit  you." 

He  shut  the  window,  stole  to  the  door,  unbarred  it  gently, 
and  admitted  his  visitor.  He  bade  her  follow  him;  and, 
shading  the  light  with  his  hand,  crept  up  the  stairs.  Cathe- 
rine's step  made  no  sound. 

They  passed,  unmolested  and  unheard,  the  room  in  which 
the  wife  was  drowsily  reading,  according  to  her  custom  before 
she  tied  her  nightcap  and  got  into  bed,  a  chapter  in  some  pious 
book.  They  ascended  to  the  chamber  where  Sidney  laj^;  Mor- 
ton opened  the  door  cautiously,  and  stood  at  the  threshold,  so 
holding  the  candle  that  its  light  might  not  wake  the  child, 
though  it  sufficed  to  guide  Catherine  to  the  bed.  The  room 
was  small,  perhaps  close,  but  scruj^ulously  clean;  for  cleanli- 
ness was  Mrs.  Eoger  Morton's  capital  virtue.  The  mother 
with  a  tremulous  hand  drew  aside  the  white  curtains,  and 
checked  her  sobs  as  she  gazed  on  the  young  quiet  face  that 
was  turned  towards  her.  She  gazed  some  moments  in  pas- 
sionate silence.     Who  shall  say,  beneath  that  silence,  what 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  83 

thoughts,  what  prayers  moved  and  stirred!  Then  bending 
down,  with  pale,  convulsive  lips  she  kissed  the  little  hands 
thrown  so  listlessly  on  the  coverlet  of  the  pillow  on  which  the 
head  lay.  After  this  she  turned  her  face  to  her  brother  with 
a  mute  appeal  in  her  glance,  took  a  ring  from  her  finger,  —  a 
ring  that  had  never  till  then  left  it,  — the  ring  which  Philip 
Beaufort  had  placed  there  the  day  after  that  child  was  born. 
"Let  him  wear  this  round  his  neck,"  said  she,  and  stopped, 
lest  she  should  sob  aloud  and  disturb  the  boy.  In  that  gift 
she  felt  as  if  she  invoked  the  father's  spirit  to  watch  over  the 
friendless  orphan;  and  then,  pressing  together  her  own  hands 
firmly,  as  we  do  in  some  paroxysm  of  great  pain,  she  turned 
from  the  room,  descended  the  stairs,  gained  the  street,  and 
muttered  to  her  brother,  "  I  am  happy  now ;  peace  be  on  these 
thresholds!  "     Before  he  could  answer  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Thus  things  are  strangely  wrought, 

While  joyful  May  doth  last ; 
Take  May  in  time  ;  when  May  is  gone 

The  pleasant  time  is  past.  —  Eichard  Edwards. 

From  the  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices. 

It  was  that  period  of  the  year  when,  to  those  who  look  on 
the  surface  of  society,  London  wears  its  most  radiant  smile ; 
when  shops  are  gayest,  and  trade  most  brisk ;  when  down  the 
thoroughfares  roll  and  glitter  the  countless  streams  of  indo- 
lent and  voluptuous  life;  when  the  upper  class  spend,  and 
the  middle  class  make;  when  the  ballroom  is  the  Market  of 
Beauty,  and  the  clubhouse  the  School  for  Scandal ;  when  the 
hells  yawn  for  their  prey,  and  opera-singers  and  fiddlers  — 
creatures  hatched  from  gold,  as  the  dung-flies  from  the  dung 
— swarm  and  buzz  and  fatten  round  the  hide  of  the  gentle 
Public.     In  the  cant   phrase,   it  was  "the  London  season." 


84  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

And  happy,  take  it  altogether,  happy  above  the  rest  of  the 
year,  even  for  the  hapless,  is  that  period  of  ferment  and  fever. 
It  is  not  the  season  for  duns,  and  the  debtor  glides  about  with 
a  less  anxious  eye ;  and  the  weather  is  warm,  and  the  vagrant 
sleeps,  unfrozen,  under  the  starlit  portico;  and  the  beggar 
thrives,  and  the  thief  rejoices, — for  the  rankness  of  the 
civilization  has  superfluities  clutched  by  all.  And  out  of 
the  general  corruption  things  sordid  and  things  miserable 
crawl  forth  to  bask  in  the  common  sunshine,  —  things  that 
perish  when  the  first  autumn-winds  whistle  along  the  melan- 
choly city.  It  is  the  gay  time  for  the  heir  and  the  beauty, 
and  the  statesman  and  the  lawyer,  and  the  mother  with  her 
young  daughters,  and  the  artist  with  his  fresh  pictures,  and 
the  poet  with  his  new  book;  it  is  the  gay  time,  too,  for  the 
starved  journeyman,  and  the  ragged  outcast  that  with  long 
stride  and  patient  eyes  follows,  for  pence,  the  equestrian,  who 
bids  him  go  and  be  d — d  in  vain;  it  is  a  gay  time  for  the 
painted  harlot  in  a  crimson  pelisse ;  and  a  gay  time  for  the 
old  hag  that  loiters  about  the  thresholds  of  the  gin-shop,  to 
buy  back  in  a  draught  the  dreams  of  departed  youth.  It  is 
gay,  in  fine,  as  the  fulness  of  a  vast  city  is  ever  gay,  —  for 
Vice  as  for  Innocence,  for  Poverty  as  for  Wealth;  and  the 
wheels  of  every  single  destiny  wheel  on  the  merrier,  no  mat- 
ter whether  they  are  bound  to  heaven  or  to  hell. 

Arthur  Beaufort,  the  young  heir,  was  at  his  father's  house. 
He  was  fresh  from  Oxford,  where  he  had  already  discovered 
that  learning  is  not  better  than  house  and  land.  Since  the 
new  prospects  opened  to  him,  Arthur  Beaufort  was  greatly 
changed.  Naturally  studious  and  prudent,  had  his  fortunes 
remained  what  they  had  been  before  his  uncle's  death,  he 
would  probably  have  become  a  labourious  and  distinguished 
man;  but  though  his  abilities  were  good,  he  had  not  those 
restless  impulses  which  belong  to  Genius,  —  often  not  onlj-  its 
glory  but  its  curse.  The  Golden  Kod  cast  his  energies  asleep 
at  once.  Good-natured  to  a  fault,  and  somewhat  vacillating 
in  character,  he  adopted  the  manner  and  the  code  of  the  rich 
young  idlers  who  were  his  equals  at  College.  He  became, 
like  them,  careless,  extravagant,  and  fond  of  pleasure.     This 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  85 

change,  if  it  deteriorated  his  mind,  improved  his  exterior.  It 
was  a  change  that  could  not  but  please  women;  and  of  all 
women  his  mother  the  most.  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  a  lady  of 
high  birth,  and  in  marrying  her,  Robert  had  hoped  much  from 
the  interest  of  her  connections;  but  a  change  in  the  Ministry 
had  thrown  her  relations  out  of  power ;  and,  beyond  her  dowry, 
he  obtained  no  worldly  advantage  with  the  lady  of  his  merce- 
nary choice.  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  a  woman  whom  a  word  or 
two  will  describe.  She  was  thoroughly  commonplace,  — 
neither  bad  nor  good,  neither  clever  nor  silly.  She  was  what 
is  called  well-bred;  that  is,  languid,  silent,  perfectly  dressed, 
and  insipid.  Of  her  two  children,  Arthur  was  almost  the 
exclusive  favourite,  especially  after  he  became  the  heir  to 
such  brilliant  fortunes ;  for  she  was  so  much  the  mechanical 
creature  of  the  world,  that  even  her  affection  was  warm  or 
cold  in  proportion  as  the  world  shone  on  it.  Without  being 
absolutely  in  love  with  her  husband,  she  liked  him,  —  they 
suited  each  other;  and  (in  spite  of  all  the  temptations  that 
had  beset  her  in  their  earlier  years,  for  she  had  been  esteemed 
a  beauty,  and  lived,  as  worldly  people  must  do,  in  circles 
where  examples  of  unpunished  gallantry  are  numerous  and 
contagious)  her  conduct  had  ever  been  scrupulously  correct. 
She  had  little  or  no  feeling  for  misfortunes  with  which  she  had 
never  come  into  contact ;  for  those  with  which  she  had,  —  such 
as  the  distresses  of  younger  sons,  or  the  errors  of  fashionable 
women,  or  the  disappointments  of  "a  proper  ambition,"  —  she 
had  more  sympathy  than  might  have  been  supposed,  and 
touched  on  them  with  all  the  tact  of  well-bred  charity  and 
ladylike  forbearance.  Thus,  though  she  was  regarded  as  a 
strict  person  in  point  of  moral  decorum,  yet  in  society  she  was 
popular,  —  as  women  at  once  pretty  and  inoffensive  generally 
are. 

To  do  Mrs.  Beaufort  justice,  she  had  not  been  privy  to  the 
letter  her  husband  wrote  to  Catherine,  although  not  wholly 
innocent  of  it.  The  fact  is,  that  Robert  had  never  mentioned 
to  her  the  peculiar  circumstances  that  made  Catherine  an 
exception  from  ordinary  rules,  —  the  generous  propositions  of 
his  brother  to  him  the  night  before  his  death;  and,  whatever 


86  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

his  incredulity  as  to  the  alleged  private  marriage,  the  perfect 
loyalty  and  faith  that  Catherine  had  borne  to  the  deceased. 
He  had  merely  observed,  "I  must  do  something,  I  suppose, 
for  that  woman.  She  very  nearly  entrapped  my  poor  brother 
into  marrying  her;  and  he  would  then,  for  what  I  know,  have 
cut  Arthur  out  of  the  estates.  Still,  I  must  do  something  for 
her,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.     What  was  she,  —  very  low?" 

"A  tradesman's  daughter." 

'*  The  children  should  be  provided  for  according  to  the  rank 
of  the  mother;  that's  the  general  rule  in  such  cases:  and  the 
mother  should  have  about  the  same  provision  she  might  have 
looked  for  if  she  had  married  a  tradesman  and  been  left  a 
widow.  I  dare  say  she  was  a  very  artful  kind  of  person,  and 
don't  deserve  anything;  but  it  is  always  handsomer,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  to  go  by  the  general  rules  people  lay  down 
as  to  money  matters." 

So  spoke  Mrs.  Beaufort.  She  concluded  her  husband  had 
settled  the  matter,  and  never  again  recurred  to  it.  Indeed, 
she  had  never  liked  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort,  whom  she  consid- 
ered mauvais  ton. 

In  the  breakfast-room  at  Mr.  Beaufort's,  the  mother  and 
son  were  seated,  the  former  at  work,  the  latter  lounging  by 
the  window :  they  were  not  alone.  In  a  large  elbow-chair  sat 
a  middle-aged  man,  listening,  or  appearing  to  listen,  to  the 
prattle  of  a  beautiful  little  girl,  Arthur  Beaufort's  sister. 
This  man  was  not  handsome,  but  there  was  a  certain  elegance 
in  his  air  and  a  certain  intelligence  in  his  countenance,  which 
made  his  appearance  pleasing.  He  had  that  kind  of  eye 
which  is  often  seen  with  red  hair,  —  an  eye  of  a  reddish 
hazel,  with  very  long  lashes;  the  eyebrows  were  dark,  and 
clearly  defined;  and  the  short  hair  showed  to  advantage  the 
contour  of  a  small  well-shaped  head.  His  features  were  irreg- 
ular ;  the  complexion  had  been  sanguine,  but  was  now  faded, 
and  a  yellow  tinge  mingled  with  the  red.  His  face  was  more 
wrinkled,  especially  round  the  eyes, —  which  when  he  laughed 
were  scarcely  visible,  — than  is  usual  even  in  men  ten  years 
older;  but  his  teeth  were  still  of  a  dazzling  whiteness;  nor 


NIGHT   AXD   MORNING.  87 

was  there  any  trace  of  decayed  health  in  his  countenance. 
He  seemed  one  who  had  lived  hard,  but  who  had  much  yet 
left  in  the  lamp  wherewith  to  feed  the  wick.  At  the  first 
glance  he  appeared  slight,  as  he  lolled  listlessly  in  his  chair, 
—  almost  fragile;  but  at  a  nearer  examination  you  perceived 
that,  in  spite  of  the  small  extremities  and  delicate  bones,  his 
frame  was  constitutionally  strong.  Without  being  broad  in 
the  shoulders,  he  was  exceedingly  deep  in  the  chest,  —  deeper 
than  men  who  seemed  giants  by  his  side;  and  his  gestures 
had  the  ease  of  one  accustomed  to  an  active  life.  He  had, 
indeed,  been  celebrated  in  his  youth  for  his  skill  in  athletic 
exercises,  but  a  wound  received  in  a  duel  many  years  ago  had 
rendered  him  lame  for  life,  —  a  misfortune  which  interfered 
with  his  former  habits,  and  was  said  to  have  soured  his  tem- 
per. This  personage,  whose  position  and  character  will  be 
described  hereafter,  was  Lord  Lilburne,  the  brother  of  Mrs. 
Beaufort. 

"So,  Camilla,"  said  Lord  Lilburne  to  his  niece,  as  care- 
lessly, not  fondly,  he  stroked  down  her  glossy  ringlets,  "  you 
don't  like  Berkeley  Square  as  you  did  Gloucester  Place." 

"  Oh,  no !  not  half  so  much !  You  see  I  never  walk  out  in  the 
fields,  ^  nor  make  daisy-chains  at  Primrose  Hill.  I  don't  know 
what  Mamma  means,"  added  the  child,  in  a  whisper,  "in  say- 
ing we  are  better  off  here." 

Lord  Lilburne  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  a  half  sneer. 

"You  will  know  quite  soon  enough,  Camilla;  the  under- 
standings of  young  ladies  grow  up  very  quickly  on  this  side 
of  Oxford  Street.  'Well,  Arthur,  and  what  are  your  plans 
to-day?" 

"Why,"  said  Arthur,  suppressing  a  yawn,  "I  have  prom- 
ised to  ride  out  with  a  friend  of  mine  to  see  a  horse  that  is 
for  sale  somewhere  in  the  suburbs." 

As  he  spoke,  Arthur  rose,  stretched  himself,  looked  in  the 
glass,  and  then  glanced  impatiently  at  the  window. 

"He  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time." 

"He!  who?"  said  Lord  Lilburne,  "the  horse  or  the  other 
animal  —  I  mean  the  friend?" 

1  Now  the  Kegent's  Park. 


88  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"Tlie  friend,"  answered  Arthur,  smiling,  but  colouring 
while  lie  smiled,  for  he  half  suspected  the  quiet  sneer  of 
his  uncle. 

"Who  is  your  friend,  Arthur?"  asked  Mrs.  Beaufort, 
looking  up  from  her  work. 

"Watson,  an  Oxford  man.  By  the  by,  I  must  introduce 
him  to  you." 

"Watson!  what  Watson?  what  family  of  Watson?  Some 
Watsons  are  good  and  some  are  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort, 
musingly. 

"Then  they  are  very  unlike  the  rest  of  mankind,"  observed 
Lord  Lilburne,  dryly. 

"Oh!  my  Watson  is  a  very  gentlemanlike  person,  I  assure 
you,"  said  Arthur,  half-laughing;  "and  you  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  him."  Then,  rather  desirous  of  turning  the  con- 
versation, he  continued,  "So  my  father  will  be  back  from 
Beaufort  Court  to-day?" 

"Yes;  he  writes  in  excellent  spirits.  He  says  the  rents 
will  bear  raising  at  least  ten  per  cent,  and  that  the  house  will 
not  require  much  repair." 

Here  Arthur  threw  open  the  window. 

"Ah,  Watson!  how  are  you?  How  d'ye  do,  Marsden? 
Danvers,  too!  that's  capital!  the  more  the  merrier!  I  will 
be  down  in  an  instant.  But  would  you  not  rather  come 
in?" 

"An  agreeable  inundation,"  murmured  Lord  Lilburne; 
"three  at  a  time!  he  takes  your  house  for  Trinity  College." 

A  loud,  clear  voice,  however,  declined  the  invitation;  the 
horses  were  heard  pawing  without.  Arthur  seized  his  hat 
and  whip,  and  glanced  to  his  mother  and  uncle,  smilingly. 
"Good-by!  I  shall  be  out  till  dinner.  Kiss  me,  my  pretty 
Milly ! "  And  as  his  sister,  who  had  run  to  the  window,  sick- 
ening for  the  fresh  air  and  exercise  he  was  about  to  enjoy, 
now  turned  to  him  wistful  and  mournful  eyes,  the  kind- 
hearted  young  man  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  whispered  while 
he  kissed  her,  — 

"  Get  up  early  to-morrow,  and  we  '11  have  such  a  nice  walk 
together." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  89 

Arthur  was  gone.  His  motlier's  gaze  had  followed  his 
young  and  graceful  figure  to  the  door. 

"  Own  that  he  is  handsome,  Lilburne.  May  I  not  say  more, 
—  has  he  not  the  proper  air?" 

"  My  dear  sister,  your  son  will  be  rich.  As  for  his  air,  he 
has  plenty  of  airs,  but  wants  graces." 

"  Then  who  could  polish  him  like  yourself?  " 

"Probably  no  one.  But  had  I  a  son — which  Heaven  for- 
bid !  —  he  should  not  have  me  for  his  Mentor.  Place  a  young 
man  —  go  and  shut  the  door,  Camilla!  —  between  two  vices, 
women  and  gambling,  if  you  want  to  polish  him  into  the 
fashionable  smoothness.  Entre  nous,  the  varnish  is  a  little 
expensive !  " 

Mrs.  Beaufort  sighed.  Lord  Lilburne  smiled.  He  had  a 
strange  pleasure  in  hurting  the  feelings  of  others.  Besides, 
he  disliked  youth;  in  his  own  youth  he  had  enjoyed  so  much 
that  he  grew  sour  when  he  saw  the  young. 

Meanwhile  Arthur  Beaufort  and  his  friends,  careless  of  the 
warmth  of  the  day,  were  laughing  merrily  and  talking  gayly, 
as  they  made  for  the  suburb  of  H . 

"It  is  an  out-of-the-way  place  for  a  horse,  too,"  said  Sir 
Harry  Danvers. 

"But  I  assure  you,"  insisted  Mr.  Watson,  earnestly,  "that 
my  groom,  who  is  a  capital  judge,  says  it  is  the  cleverest  hack 
he  ever  mounted.  It  has  won  several  trotting  matches.  It 
belonged  to  a  sporting  tradesman,  now  done  up.  The  adver- 
tisement caught  me." 

"Well,"  said  Arthur,  gayly,  "at  all  events  the  ride  is 
delightful.  What  weather!  You  must  all  dine  with  me  at 
Kichmond  to-morrow;  we  will  row  back." 

"And  a  little  chicken-hazard,  at  the  M ,  afterwards," 

said  Mr.  Marsden,  who  was  an  elder,  not  a  better,  man  than 
the  rest,  —  a  handsome,  saturnine  man,  who  had  just  left 
Oxford,  and  was  already  known  on  the  turf. 

"Anything  you  please,"  said  Arthur,  making  his  horse 
curvet. 

Oh,  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort!  Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort!  could  your 
prudent,  scheming,  worldly  heart  but  feel  what  devil's  tricks 


90  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

your  wealth,  was  playing  with  a  son  who  if  poor  had  been  the 
pride  of  the  Beauforts !  On  one  side  of  our  pieces  of  gold  we 
see  the  saint  trampling  down  the  dragon.  False  emblem! 
Reverse  it  on  the  coin!  In  the  real  use  of  the  gold,  it  is  the 
dragon  who  tramples  down  the  saint !  But  on,  on !  the  day  is 
bright  and  your  companions  merry;  make  the  best  of  your 
green  years,  Arthur  Beaufort! 

The  young  men  had  just  entered  the  suburb  of  H ,  and 

were  spurring  on  four  abreast  at  a  canter.  At  that  time  an 
old  man,  feeling  his  way  before  him  with  a  stick,  —  for  though 
not  quite  blind,  he  saw  imperfectly,  —  was  crossing  the  road. 
Arthur  and  his  friends,  in  loud  converse,  did  not  observe  the 
poor  passenger.  He  stopped  abruptly,  for  his  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  danger.  It  was  too  late :  Mr.  Marsden's  horse,  hard- 
mouthed  and  high-stepping,  came  full  against  him.  Mr. 
Marsden  looked  down. 

"Hang  these  old  men!  always  in  the  way,"  said  he,  plain- 
tively, and  in  the  tone  of  a  much-injured  person;  and  with 
that  Mr.  Marsden  rode  on.  But  the  others,  who  were  younger, 
who  were  not  gamblers,  who  were  not  yet  grinded  down  into 
stone  by  the  world's  wheels, — the  others  halted.  Arthvir 
Beaufort  leaped  from  his  horse,  and  the  old  man  was  already 
in  his  arms;  but  he  was  severely  hurt.  The  blood  trickled 
from  his  forehead;  he  complained  of  pain  in  his  side  and 
limbs. 

"  Lean  on  me,  my  poor  fellow !  I  will  take  you  home.  Do 
you  live  far  off  ?  " 

"  Not  many  yards.  This  would  not  have  happened  if  I  had 
had  my  dog.  Never  mind,  sir,  go  your  way.  It  is  only  an 
old  man  —  what  of  that?     I  wish  I  had  my  dog." 

"I  will  join  you,"  said  Arthur  to  his  friends;  "my  groom 
has  the  direction.  I  will  just  take  the  poor  old  man  home, 
and  send  for  a  surgeon.     I  shall  not  be  long." 

"So  like  you,  Beaufort,  —  the  best  fellow  in  the  world!" 
said  Mr.  Watson,  with  some  emotion.  "  And  there  's  Marsden 
l^ositively  dismounted,  and  looking  at  his  horse's  knees  as  if 
th«,y  could  be  hurt!     Here  's  a  sovereign  for  you,  my  man." 

"And  here  's  another,"  said  Sir  Harry;    "so  that 's  settled. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  91 

Well,  you  will  join  us,  Beaufort?  You  see  the  yard  yonder. 
We  '11  wait  twenty  minutes  for  you.     Come  on,  Watson." 

The  old  man  had  not  picked  up  the  sovereigns  thrown  at 
his  feet,  neither  had  he  thanked  the  donors ;  and  on  his  coun- 
tenance there  was  a  sour,  querulous,  resentful  expression. 

"  Must  a  man  be  a  beggar  because  he  is  run  over,  or  because 
he  is  half  blind?"  said  he,  turning  his  dim,  wandering  eyes 
painfully  towards  Arthur.     "Well,  I  wish  I  had  my  dog!  " 

"  I  will  supply  his  place,"  said  Arthur,  soothingly.  "  Come, 
lean  on  me,  —  heavier ;  that 's  right.  You  are  not  so  bad, 
—  eh?" 

"  Um !  —  the  sovereigns !  —  it  is  wicked  to  leave  them  in  the 
kennel ! " 

Arthur  smiled.     "Here  they  are,  sir." 

The  old  man  slid  the  coins  into  his  pocket,  and  Arthur 
continued  to  talk,  though  he  got  but  short  answers,  and  those 
only  in  the  way  of  direction,  till  at  last  the  old  man  stopped 
at  the  door  of  a  small  house  near  the  churchyard. 

After  twice  ringing  the  bell,  the  door  was  opened  by  a  mid- 
dle-aged woman,  whose  appearance  was  above  that  of  a  com- 
mon menial,  —  dressed,  somewhat  gayly  for  her  years,  in  a 
cap  seated  very  far  back  on  a  black  toupet,  and  decorated  with 
red  ribbons,  an  apron  made  out  of  an  Indian  silk  handker- 
chief, a  puce-coloured  sarcenet  gown,  black  silk  stockings, 
long  gilt  earrings,  and  a  watch  at  her  girdle. 

"Bless  us  and  save  us,  sir!  What  has  happened?"  ex- 
claimed this  worthy  personage,  holding  up  her  hands. 

"Pish!  I  am  faint;  let  me  in.  I  don't  want  your  aid  any 
more,  sir.     Thank  you.     Good  day !  " 

Not  discouraged  by  this  farewell,  the  churlish  tone  of  which 
fell  harmless  on  the  invincibly  sweet  temper  of  Arthur,  the 
young  man  continued  to  assist  the  sufferer  along  the  narrow 
passage  into  a  little  old-fashioned  parlour ;  and  no  sooner  was 
the  owner  deposited  on  his  worm-eaten  leather  chair  than  he 
fainted  away.  On  reaching  the  house,  Arthur  had  sent  his 
servant  (who  had  followed  him  with  the  horses)  for  the  nearest 
surgeon ;  and  while  the  woman  was  still  employed,  after  tak- 
ing off  the  sufferer's  cravat,  in  burning  feathers  under  his 


92  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

nose,  there  was  heard  a  sharp  rap  and  a  shrill  ring.  Arthur 
opened  the  door,  and  admitted  a  smart  little  man  in  nankeen 
breeches  and  gaiters.     He  bustled  into  the  room. 

''What 's  this  —  bad  accident?  Um,  um!  Sad  thing,  very 
sad.  Open  the  window.  A  glass  of  water,  a  towel.  So,  so; 
I  see  I  see!  No  fracture  —  contusion.  Help  him  off  with 
his  coat.  Another  chair,  ma'am;  put  up  his  poor  legs.  What 
age  is  he,  ma'am?  Sixty-eight!  Too  old  to  bleed.  Thank 
you.  How  is  it,  sir?  Poorly,  to  be  sure;  will  be  comfort- 
able presently.     Faintish  still?     Soon  put  all  to  rights." 

"Tray!  Tray!     Where's  my  dog,  Mrs.  Boxer?" 

"Lord,  sir,  what  do  you  want  with  your  dog  now?  He  is 
in  the  back-yard." 

"And  what  business  has  my  dog  in  the  back-yard?"  almost 
screamed  the  sufferer,  in  accents  that  denoted  no  diminution 
of  vigour.  "  I  thought  as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned  my  dog 
would  be  ill-used!  Why  did  I  go  without  my  dog?  Let  in 
my  dog  directly,  Mrs.  Boxer!  " 

"All  right,  you  see,  sir,"  said  the  apothecary,  turning  to 
Beaufort,  "  no  cause  for  alarm.  Very  comforting  that  little 
passion  —  does  him  good;  sets  one's  mind  easy.  How  did  it 
happen?  Ah,  I  understand!  knocked  down.  Might  have 
been  worse.  Your  groom  (sharp  fellow!)  explained  in  a 
trice,  sir.  Thought  it  was  my  old  friend  here  by  the  descrip- 
tion. Worthy  man;  settled  here  a  many  year;  very  odd  — 
eccentric  (this  in  a  whisper).  Came  off  instantly;  jiist  at 
dinner  —  cold  lamb  and  salad.  'Mrs.  Perkins,'  says  I,  'if 
any  one  calls  for  me,  I  shall  be  at  No.  4  Prospect  Place.' 
Your  servant  observed  the  address,  sir.  Oh,  very  sharp  fel- 
low! See  how  the  old  gentleman  takes  to  his  dog;  fine  little 
dog ;  what  a  stump  of  a  tail !  Deal  of  practice ;  expect  two 
accouchements  every  hour.  Hot  weather  for  childbirth.  So 
says  I  to  Mrs.  Perkins,  '  If  Mrs.  Plummer  is  taken,  or  Mrs. 
Everat,  or  if  old  Mr.  Grub  has  another  fit,  send  off  at  once  to 
No.  4.  Medical  men  should  be  always  in  the  way,  — that's 
my  maxim.     Now,  sir,  where  do  you  feel  the  pain?" 

"In  my  ears,  sir." 

"Bless  me,  that  looks  bad.     How  long  have  you  felt  it?" 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  93 

"Ever  since  you  have  been  in  the  room." 

"Oh,  I  take!  Ha,  ha!  Very  eccentric,  very!"  muttered 
the  apothecary,  a  little  disconcerted.  "Well,  let  him  lie 
down,  ma'am.  I  '11  send  him  a  little  quieting  draught  to  be 
taken  directly;  pill  at  night,  aperient  in  the  morning.  If 
wanted,  send  for  me ;  always  to  be  found.  Bless  me,  that 's 
my  boy  Bob's  ring!  Please  to  open  the  door,  ma'am.  Know 
his  ring,  — very  peculiar  knack  of  his  own.  Lay  ten  to  one 
it  is  Mrs.  Plummer,  or  perhaps,  Mrs.  Everat,  — her  ninth 
child  in  eight  years;  in  the  grocery  line.  A  woman  in  a 
thousand,  sir! " 

Here  a  thin  boy,  with  very  short  coat-sleeves  and  very  large 
hands,  burst  into  the  room  with  his  mouth  open. 

"Sir!  Mr.  Perkins!  sir!" 

"  I  know,  I  know,  —  coming.  Mrs.  Plummer  or  Mrs. 
Everat?  " 

"No,  sir;  it  be  the  poor  lady  at  Mrs.  Lacy's;  she  be  taken 
desperate.  Mrs.  Lacy's  girl  has  just  been  over  to  the  shop, 
and  made  me  run  here  to  you,  sir." 

"Mrs.  Lacy's!  oh,  I  know.  Poor  Mrs.  Morton!  Bad  case, 
very  bad;  must  be  off.  Keep  him  quiet,  ma'am.  Good  day. 
Look  in  to-morrow,  nine  o'clock.  Put  a  little  lint  with  the 
lotion  on  the  head,  ma'am.  Mrs.  Morton!  Ah,  bad  job 
that!" 

Here  the  apothecary  had  shuffled  himself  off  to  the  street- 
door,  when  Arthur  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Mrs.  Morton!  Did  you  sd^y  Morton,  sir?  What  kind  of 
a  person;  is  she  very  ill?" 

"Hopeless  case,  sir;  general  break-up.  Nice  woman,  quite 
the  lady,  known  better  days,  I  'm  sure." 

"Has  she  any  children,  — sons?" 

"Two.  Both  away  now;  fine  lads!  quite  wrapped  up  in 
them,  — youngest  especially." 

"  Good  heavens !  it  must  be  she ;  ill  and  dying  and  destitute, 
perhaps,"  exclaimed  Arthur,  with  real  and  deep  feeling;  "I 
will  go  with  you,  sir.  I  fancy  that  I  know  this  lady,  — that," 
he  added  generously,  "I  am  related  to  her." 

"Do  you?     Glad  to  hear  it.     Come  along  then;  she  ought 


94  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

to  have  some  one  near  her  besides  servants.     Not  but  what 

Jenny,    the    maid,    is    uncommonly   kind.      Dr.  ,    who 

attends  her  sometimes,  said  to  me,  says  he,  '  It  is  the  mind, 
Mr,  Perkins;  I  wish  we  could  get  back  her  boys.'  " 

"And  where  are  they?" 

"  'Prenticed  out,  I  fancy.     Master  Sidney  —  " 

"Sidney!" 

"Ah,  that  was  his  name, — pretty  name.  D'ye  know  Sir 
Sidney  Smith?  Extraordinary  man,  sir!  Master  Sidney  was 
a  beautiful  child,  quite  spoiled.  She  always  fancied  him  ail- 
ing, always  sending  for  me.  '  Mr.  Perkins,'  said  she,  '  there  's 
something  the  matter  with  my  child;  I  'm  sure  there  is,  though 
he  won't  own  it.  He  has  lost  his  appetite;  had  a  headache 
last  night. '  '  Nothing  the  matter,  ma'am, '  says  I ;  '  wish 
you'd  think  more  of  yourself.'  These  mothers  are  silly, 
anxious,  poor  creatures.  Nater,  sir,  nater,  —  wonderful 
thing,  nater!     Here  we  are." 

And  the  apothecary  knocked  at  the  private  door  of  a  milli- 
ner and  hosier's  shop. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Thy  child  shall  live,  and  I  will  see  it  nourished.  —  Titus  Andronicus. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  excitement  and  fatigue  of  Cathe- 
rine's journey  to  N had  considerably  accelerated  the  pro- 
gress of  disease ;  and  when  she  reached  home,  and  looked  round 
the  cheerless  rooms  all  solitary,  all  hushed,  —  Sidney  gone, 
gone  from  her  forever,  she  felt  indeed  as  if  the  last  reed  on 
which  she  had  leaned  was  broken,  and  her  business  upon  earth 
was  done.  Catherine  was  not  condemned  to  absolute  poverty, 
—  the  poverty  which  grinds  and  gnaws,  the  poverty  of  rags 
and  famine.  She  had  still  left  nearly  half  of  such  portion  of 
the  little  capital,  realized  by  the  sale  of  her  trinkets,  as  had 
escaped  the  clutch  of  the  law ;  and  her  brother  had  forced  into 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  95 

her  hands  a  note  for  £20,  with  an  assurance  that  the  same 
sum  should  be  paid  to  her  half-yearly.  Alas !  there  was  little 
chance  of  her  needing  it  again!  She  was  not,  then,  in  want 
of  means  to  procure  the  common  comforts  of  life.  But  now  a 
new  passion  had  entered  into  her  breast,  — the  passion  of  the 
miser;  she  wished  to  hoard  every  sixpence  as  some  little  pro- 
vision for  her  children.  What  was  the  use  of  her  feeding  a 
lamp  nearly  extinguished,  and  which  was  fated  to  be  soon 
broken  up  and  cast  amidst  the  vast  lumber-house  of  Death? 
She  would  willingly  have  removed  into  a  more  homely  lodg- 
ing, but  the  servant  of  the  house  had  been  so  fond  of  Sidney, 
so  kind  to  him.  She  clung  to  one  familiar  face  on  which  there 
seemed  to  live  the  reflection  of  her  child's.  But  she  relin- 
quished the  first  floor  for  the  second;  and  there,  day  by  day, 
she  felt  her  eyes  grow  heavier  and  heavier  beneath  the  clouds 
of  the  last  sleep.  Besides  the  aid  of  Mr.  Perkins,  a  kind 
enough  man  in  his  way,  the  good  physician  whom  she  had 
before  consulted  still  attended  her,  and  —  refused  his  fee. 
Shocked  at  perceiving  that  she  rejected  every  little  allevia- 
tion of  her  condition,  and  wishing  at  least  to  procure  for  her 
last  hours  the  society  of  one  of  her  sons,  he  had  inquired  the 
address  of  the  elder;  and  on  the  day  preceding  the  one  in 
which  Arthur  discovered  her  abode,  he  despatched  to  Philip 
the  following  letter :  — 

Sir,  —  Being  called  in  to  attend  your  mother  in  a  lingering  illness, 
which  I  fear  may  prove  fatal,  I  think  it  my  duty  to  request  you  to  come 
to  her  as  soon  as  you  receive  this.  Your  presence  cannot  but  be  a  great 
comfort  to  her.  The  nature  of  her  illness  is  such  that  it  is  impossible  to 
calculate  exactly  how  long  she  may  be  spared  to  you  ;  but  I  am  sure  her 
fate  might  be  prolonged,  and  her  remaining  days  more  happy,  if  she  could 
be  induced  to  remove  into  a  better  air  and  a  more  quiet  neighbourhood, 
to  take  more  generous  sustenance,  and,  above  all,  if  her  mind  could  be 
set  more  at  ease  as  to  your  and  your  brother's  prospects.  You  must 
pardon  me  if  I  have  seemed  inquisitive ;  but  I  have  sought  to  draw  from 
your  mother  some  particulars  as  to  her  family  and  connections,  with  a 
wish  to  represent  to  them  her  state  of  mind.  She  is,  however,  very 
reserved  on  these  points.  If,  however,  you  have  relations  well  to  do  in 
the  world,  I  think  some  application  to  them  should  be  made.  I  fear  the 
state  of  her  affairs  weighs  much  upon  your  poor  mother's  mind  ;  and  I 


96  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

must  leave  you  to  judge  how  far  it  can  be  relieved  by  the  good  feeling 
of   any  persons  upon   whom  she  may  have  legitimate  claims.     At  all 
events,  I  repeat  my  wish  that  you  should  come  to  her  forthwith. 
I  am,  etc., 

After  the  physician  had  despatched  this  letter,  a  sudden 
and  marked  alteration  for  the  worse  took  place  in  his  patient's 
disorder;  and  in  the  visit  he  had  paid  that  morning,  he  saw 
cause  to  fear  that  her  hours  on  earth  would  be  much  fewer 
than  he  had  before  anticipated.  He  had  left  her,  however, 
comparatively  better;  but  two  hours  after  his  departure,  the 
symptoms  of  her  disease  had  become  very  alarming,  and  the 
good-natured  servant-girl,  her  sole  nurse,  and  who  had,  more- 
over, the  whole  business  of  the  other  lodgers  to  attend  to,  had, 
as  we  have  seen,  thought  it  necessary  to  summon  the  apothe- 
cary in  the  interval  that  must  elapse  before  she  could  reach  the 
distant  part  of  the  metropolis  in  which  Dr.  resided. 

On  entering  the  chamber,  Arthur  felt  all  the  remorse  which 
of  right  belonged  to  his  father  press  heavily  on  his  soul.  What 
a  contrast,  that  mean  and  solitary  chamber  and  its  comfortless 
appurtenances,  to  the  graceful  and  luxurious  abode,  where  full 
of  health  and  hope  he  had  last  beheld  her,  the  mother  of  Philip 
Beaufort's  children!  He  remained  silent  till  Mr.  Perkins, 
after  a  few  questions,  retired  to  send  his  drugs.  He  then 
approached  the  bed;  Catherine,  though  very  weak  and  suffer- 
ing much  pain,  was  still  sensible.  She  turned  her  dim  eyes 
on  the  young  man,  but  she  did  not  recognize  his  features. 

"You  do  not  remember  me?  "  said  he,  in  a  voice  struggling 
with  tears:  "I  am  Arthur  —  Arthur  Beaufort." 

Catherine  made  no  answer. 

"Good  heavens!  Why  do  I  see  you  here?  I  believed  you 
with  your  friends,  your  children  provided  for,  as  became  my 
father  to  do.     He  assured  me  that  you  were  so." 

Still  no  answer. 

And  then  the  young  man,  overpowered  with  the  feelings  of 
a  sympathizing  and  generous  nature,  forgetting  for  a  while 
Catherine's  weakness,  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  inquiries, 
regrets,  and  self-upbraidings,  which  Catherine  at  first  little 


NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG.  97 

heeded.  But  the  name  of  her  children  repeated  again  and 
again  struck  upon  that  chord  which,  in  a  woman's  heart,  is 
the  last  to  break ;  and  she  raised  herself  in  her  bed,  and  looked 
at  her  visitor  wistfully. 

"  Your  father, "  she  said,  then,  —  "  your  father  was  unlike 
my  Philip;  but  I  see  things  differently  now.  For  me,  all 
bounty  is  too  late;  but  my  children  —  to-morrow  they  may 
have  no  mother.  The  law  is  with  you,  but  not  justice!  You 
will  be  rich  and  powerful;  will  you  befriend  my  children?" 

"Through  life,  so  help  me  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Arthur, 
falling  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 

What  then  passed  between  them  it  is  needless  to  detail;  for 
it  was  little,  save  broken  repetitions  of  the  same  prayer  and 
the  same  response.  But  there  was  so  much  truth  and  earnest- 
ness in  Arthur's  voice  and  countenance  that  Catherine  felt  as 
if  an  angel  had  come  there  to  administer  comfort ;  and  when 
late  in  the  day  the  physician  entered,  he  found  his  patient 
leaning  on  the  breast  of  her  young  visitor,  and  looking  on  his 
face  with  a  happy  smile. 

The  physician  gathered  enough  from  the  appearance  of 
Arthur  and  the  gossip  of  Mr.  Perkins  to  conjecture  that  one 
of  the  rich  relations  he  had  attributed  to  Catherine  was 
arrived.     Alas !  for  her  it  was  now  indeed  too  late ! 


CHAPTEK  XI. 

D'  TE  stand  amazed  ''  —  Look  o'er  thy  head,  Jlaximinian ! 
Look  to  the  terror  which  overhangs  thee. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcheb:   The  Prophetess. 

Philip  had  been  five  weeks  in  his  new  home ;  in  another 

week,  he  was  to  enter  on  his  articles  of  apprenticeship.    With 

a  stern,  unbending  gloom  of  manner,  he  had  commenced  the 

duties  of  his  novitiate.     He  submitted  to  all  that  was  enjoined 

7 


98  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

him.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  forever  the  wild  and  unruly 
waywardness  that  had  stamped  his  boyhood;  but  he  was  never 
seen  to  smile;  he  scarcely  ever  opened  his  lips.  His  very  soul 
seemed  to  have  quitted  him  with  its  faults ;  and  he  performed 
all  the  functions  of  his  situation  with  the  quiet  listless  regu- 
larity of  a  machine.  Only  when  the  work  was  done  and  the 
shop  closed,  instead  of  joining  the  family  circle  in  the  back 
parlour,  he  would  stroll  out  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  away 
from  the  town,  and  not  return  till  the  hour  at  which  the  family 
retired  to  rest.  Punctual  in  all  he  did,  he  never  exceeded  that 
hour.  He  had  heard  once  a  week  from  his  mother ;  and  only 
on  the  mornings  in  which  he  expected  a  letter  did  he  seem 
restless  and  agitated.  Till  the  postman  entered  the  shop,  he 
was  as  pale  as  death,  his  hands  trembling,  his  lips  compressed. 
When  he  read  the  letter  he  became  composed,  for  Catherine 
sedulously  concealed  from  her  son  the  state  of  her  health;  she 
wrote  cheerfully,  besought  him  to  content  himself  with  the 
state  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  expressed  her  joy  that  in 
his  letters  he  intimated  that  content,  — for  the  poor  boy's  let- 
ters were  not  less  considerate  than  her  own.  On  her  return 
from  her  brother,  she  had  so  far  silenced  or  concealed  her  mis- 
givings as  to  express  satisfaction  at  the  home  she  had  provided 
for  Sidney ;  and  she  even  held  out  hopes  of  some  future  when, 
their  probation  finished  and  their  independence  secured,  she 
might  reside  with  her  sons  alternately.  These  hopes  redoubled 
Philip's  assiduity,  and  he  saved  every  shilling  of  his  weekly 
stipend;  and  sighed  as  he  thought  that  in  another  week  his 
term  of  apprenticeship  would  commence  and  the  stipend 
cease. 

Mr.  Plaskwith  could  not  but  be  pleased  on  the  whole  with 
the  diligence  of  his  assistant,  but  he  was  chafed  and  irritated 
by  the  sullenness  of  his  manner.  As  for  ]\Irs.  Plaskwith,  poor 
woman!  she  positively  detested  the  taciturn  and  moody  boj', 
who  never  mingled  in  the  jokes  of  the  circle,  nor  played  with 
the  children,  nor  complimented  her,  nor  added,  in  short,  any- 
thing to  the  sociability  of  the  house.  Mr.  Plimmins,  who  had 
at  first  sought  to  condescend,  next  sought  to  bully;  but  the 
gaunt  frame  and  savage  eye  of  Philip  awed  the  smirk  youth, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNINCx.  99 

in  spite  of  himself;  and  he  confessed  to  Mrs.  Plaskwith  that 
he  should  not  like  to  meet  "  the  gypsy  "  alone  on  a  dark  night, 
—  to  which  Mrs.  Plaskwith  replied,  as  usual,  "that  Mr.  Plim- 
mins  always  did  say  the  best  things  in  the  world ! " 

One  morning,  Philip  was  sent  a  few  miles  into  the  country, 
to  assist  in  cataloguing  some  books  in  the  library  of  Sir 
Thomas  Champerdown,  —  that  gentleman,  who  was  a  scholar, 
having  requested  that  some  one  acquainted  with  the  Greek 
character  might  be  sent  to  him,  and  Philip  being  the  only  one 
in  the  shop  who  possessed  such  knowledge. 

It  was  evening  before  he  returned.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plaskwith 
were  both  in  the  shop  as  he  entered;  in  fact,  they  had  been 
employed  in  talking  him  over. 

"  I  can't  abide  him ! "  cried  Mrs.  Plaskwith.  "  If  you 
choose  to  take  him  for  good,  I  sha'  n't  have  an  easy  moment. 
I  'm  sure  the  'prentice  that  cut  his  master's  throat  at  Chatham, 
last  week,  was  just  like  him." 

"Pshaw!  Mrs.  P.,"  said  the  bookseller,  taking  a  huge  pinch 
of  snuff,  as  usual,  from  his  waistcoat  pocket.  "  I  myself  was 
reserved  when  I  was  young;  all  reflective  people  are.  I  may 
observe,  by  the  by,  that  it  was  the  case  with  Napoleon  Buon- 
aparte ;  still,  however,  I  must  own  he  is  a  disagreeable  youth, 
though  he  attends  to  his  business." 

"And  how  fond  of  money  he  is!  "  remarked  Mrs.  Plaskwith; 
"he  won't  buy  himself  a  new  pair  of  shoes!  —  quite  disgrace- 
ful !  And  did  you  see  what  a  look  he  gave  Plimmins  when  he 
joked  about  his  indiiferenee  to  his  sole?  Plimmins  always 
does  say  such  good  things !  " 

"He  is  shabby,  certainly,"  said  the  bookseller;  "but  the 
value  of  a  book  does  not  always  depend  on  the  binding." 

"I  hope  he  is  honest!"  observed  Mrs.  Plaskwith.  And 
here  Philip  entered. 

"Hum,"  said  Mr.  Plaskwith,  "you  have  had  a  long  day's 
work;  but  I  suppose  it  will  take  a  week  to  finish?" 

"I  am  to  go  again  to-morrow  morning,  sir;  two  days  more 
will  conclude  the  task." 

"There's  a  letter  for  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Plaskwith;  "you 
owes  me  for  it." 


100  :n'ight  and  morning. 

"  A  letter!"  It  was  not  his  mother's  hand;  it  was  a  strange 
writing.  He  gasjDed  for  breath  as  he  broke  the  seal.  It  was 
the  letter  of  the  physician. 

His  mother,  then,  was  ill,  dying,  wanting,  perhaps,  the 
necessaries  of  life.  She  would  have  concealed  from  him  her 
illness  and  her  poverty.  His  quick  alarm  exaggerated  the 
last  into  utter  want.  He  uttered  a  cry  that  rang  through  the 
shop,  and  rushed  to  Mr.  Plaskwith. 

"  Sir,  sir !  my  mother  is  dying !  She  is  poor,  poor,  perhaps 
starving.  Money,  money !  lend  me  money !  ten  pounds !  five ! 
I  will  work  for  you  all  my  life  for  nothing,  but  lend  me  the 
money ! " 

"Hoity-toity!  "  said  Mrs.  Plaskwith,  nudging  her  husband, 
"I  told  you  what  would  come  of  it;  it  will  be  '  money  or  life ' 
next  time." 

Philip  did  not  heed  or  hear  this  address,  but  stood  imme- 
diately before  the  bookseller,  his  hands  clasped,  wild  impa- 
tience in  his  eyes.  Mr.  Plaskwith,  somewhat  stupefied, 
remained  silent. 

"Do  you  hear  me?  Are  you  human?"  exclaimed  Philip, 
his  emotion  revealing  at  once  all  the  fire  of  his  character.  "  I 
tell  you  my  mother  is  dying ;  I  must  go  to  her !  Shall  I  go 
empty-handed?     Give  me  money!  " 

Mr.  Plaskwith  was  not  a  bad-hearted  man;  but  he  was  a 
formal  man,  and  an  irritable  one.  The  tone  his  shopboy  (for 
so  he  considered  Philip)  assumed  to  him  before  his  own  wife 
too  (examples  are  very  dangerous)  rather  exasperated  than 
moved  him. 

"That's  not  the  way  to  speak  to  your  master;  you  forget 
yourself,  young  man !  " 

"Forget!  But,  sir,  if  she  has  not  necessaries;  if  she  is 
starving?  " 

"Fudge!"  said  Plaskwith.  "Mr.  Morton  writes  me  word 
that  he  has  provided  for  your  mother!  Does  he  not, 
Hannah?" 

"  More  fool  he,  I  'm  sure,  with  such  a  fine  family  of  his 
own!  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way,  young  man;  I  won't 
take  it,  that  I  won't!     I  declare  my  blood  friz  to  see  you! " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  101 

"Will  you  advance  me  money;  five  pounds,  only  five 
pounds,   Mr.   Plaskwith?" 

"Not  five  shillings!  Talk  to  vie  in  this  style!  Not  the 
man  for  it,  sir!  highly  improper.  Come,  shut  up  the  shop, 
and  recollect  yourself;  and,  perhaps,  when  Sir  Thomas's 
library  is  done,  I  may  let  you  go  to  town.  You  can't  go 
to-morrow.     All  a  sham,  perhaps;  eh,  Hannah?" 

"  Very  likely !  Consult  Plimmins.  Better  come  away  now, 
Mr.  P.     He  looks  like  a  young  tiger." 

Mrs.  Plaskwith  quitted  the  shop  for  the  parlour.  Her 
husband,  putting  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  throwing 
back  his  chin,  was  about  to  follow  her.  Philip,  who  had 
remained  for  the  last  moment  mute  and  white  as  stone,  turned 
abruptly;  and  his  grief  taking  rather  the  tone  of  rage  than 
supplication,  he  threw  himself  before  his  master,  and,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  said,  — 

"I  leave  you;  do  not  let  it  be  with  a  curse.  I  conjure  you, 
have  mercy  on  me !  " 

Mr.  Plaskwith  stopped;  and  had  Philip  then  taken  but  a 
milder  tone,  all  had  been  well.  But,  accustomed  from  child- 
hood to  command,  all  his  fierce  passions  loose  within  him, 
despising  the  very  man  he  thus  implored,  the  boy  ruined  his 
own  cause.  Indignant  at  the  silence  of  Mr.  Plaskwith,  and 
too  blinded  by  his  emotions  to  see  that  in  that  silence  there 
was  relenting,  he  suddenly  shook  the  little  man  with  a  vehe- 
mence that  almost  overset  him,  and  cried,  — 

"  You,  who  demand  for  five  years  my  bones  and  blood,  my 
body  and  soul,  a  slave  to  your  vile  trade,  do  you  deny  me 
bread  for  a  mother's  lips?" 

Trembling  with  anger  and,  perhaps,  fear,  Mr.  Plaskwith 
extricated  himself  from  the  gripe  of  Philip,  and,  hurrying 
from  the  shop,  said,  as  he  banged  the  door,  — 

"Beg  my  pardon  for  this  to-night,  or  out  you  go  to-morrow, 
neck  and  crop !  Zounds !  a  pretty  pass  the  world  's  come  to ! 
I  don't  believe  a  word  about  your  mother.     Baugh !  " 

Left  alone,  Philip  remained  for  some  moments  struggling 
with  his  wrath  and  agony.  He  then  seized  his  hat,  which  he 
had  thrown  off  on  entering,  pressed  it  over  his  brows,  turned 


102  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

to  quit  the  shop,  when  his  eye  fell  upou  the  till.  Plaskwith 
had  left  it  open,  and  the  gleam  of  the  coin  struck  his  gaze,  — 
that  deadly  smile  of  the  arch  tempter.  Intellect,  reason,  con- 
science, —  all  in  that  instant  were  confusion  and  chaos.  He 
cast  a  hurried  glance  round  the  solitary  and  darkening  room, 
plunged  his  hand  into  the  drawer,  clutched  he  knew  not  what, 
—  silver  or  gold,  as  it  came  uppermost, — and  burst  into  a 
loud  and  bitter  laugh.  The  laugh  itself  startled  him,  —  it  did 
not  sound  like  his  own.  His  face  fell,  and  his  knees  knocked 
together;  his  hair  bristled;  he  felt  as  if  the  very  fiend  had 
uttered  that  yell  of  joy  over  a  fallen  soul. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  muttered;  "no,  my  mother, — not  even 
for  thee !"  and  dashing  the  money  to  the  ground,  he  fled  like 
a  maniac  from  the  house. 

At  a  later  hour  that  same  evening,  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort 
returned  from  his  country  mansion  to  Berkeley  Square.  He 
found  his  wife  very  uneasy  and  nervous  about  the  non-appear- 
ance of  their  only  son.  Arthur  had  sent  home  his  groom  and 
horses  about  seven  o'clock,  with  a  hurried  scroll,  written  in 
pencil  on  a  blank  page  torn  from  his  pocketbook,  and  contain- 
ing only  these  words :  — 

"  Don't  wait  dinner  for  me ;  I  may  not  be  home  for  some  hours.  I 
have  met  with  a  melancholy  adventure.  You  will  approve  what  I  have 
done  when  we  meet." 

This  note  a  little  perplexed  Mr.  Beaufort;  but  as  he  was 
very  hungry,  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  both  to  his  wife's  conjec- 
tures and  his  own  surmises  till  he  had  refreshed  himself;  and 
then  he  sent  for  the  groom,  and  learned  that,  after  the  acci- 
dent to  the  blind  man,  Mr.  Arthur  had  been  left  at  a  hosier's 

in  H .     This  seemed  to  him  extremely  mysterious ;  and  as 

hour  after  hour  passed  away,  and  still  Arthur  came  not,  he 
began  to  imbibe  his  wife's  fears,  which  were  now  wound  up 
almost  to  hysterics ;  and  just  at  midnight  he  ordered  his  car- 
riage, and  taking  with  him  the  groom  as  a  guide,  set  off  to  the 
suburban  region.  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  wished  to  accompany 
him;  but  the  husband  observing  that  young  men  would  be 
young  men,  and  that  there  might  possibly  be  a  lady  in  the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  103 

case,  Mrs.  Beaufort,  after  a  pause  of  thought,  passively  agreed 
that,  all  things  cousidered,  she  had  better  remain  at  home. 
No  lady  of  proper  decorum  likes  to  run  the  risk  of  finding 
herself  in  a  false  position.  Mr.  Beaufort  accordingly  set  out 
alone.  Easy  was  the  carriage,  swift  were  the  steeds;  and 
luxuriously  the  wealthy  man  was  whirled  along.  Not  a  sus- 
picion of  the  true  cause  of  Arthur's  detention  crossed  him; 
but  he  thought  of  the  snares  of  London,  of  artful  females  in 
distress.  "  A  melancholy  adventure  "  generally  implies  love 
for  the  adventure  and  money  for  the  melancholy;  and  Arthur 
was  young,  generous,  with  a  heart  and  a  pocket  equally  open 
to  imposition.  Such  scrapes,  however,  do  not  terrify  a  father 
when  he  is  a  man  of  the  world  so  much  as  they  do  an  anxious 
mother;  and  with  more  curiosity  than  alarm,  Mr.  Beaufort, 
after  a  short  doze,  found  himself  before  the  shop  indicated. 

Notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  door  to  the 
private  entrance  was  ajar,  —  a  circumstance  which  seemed 
very  suspicious  to  Mr.  Beaufort.  He  pushed  it  open  with 
caution  and  timidity.  A  candle  placed  upon  a  chair  in  the 
narrow  passage  threw  a  sickly  light  over  the  flight  of  stairs, 
till  swallowed  up  by  the  deep  shadow  from  the  sharp  angle 
made  by  the  ascent.  Robert  Beaufort  stood  a  moment  in 
some  doubt  whether  to  call,  to  knock,  to  recede,  or  to  advance, 
when  a  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs  above.  It  came  nearer 
and  nearer;  a  figure  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  last 
landing-place,  and  Mr.  Beaufort,  to  his  great  joy,  recognized 
his  son. 

Arthur  did  not,  however,  seem  to  perceive  his  father,  and 
was  about  to  pass  him,  when  Mr.  Beaufort  laid  his  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"What  means  all  this,  Arthur?  What  place  are  you  in? 
How  you  have  alarmed  us !  " 

Arthur  cast  a  look  upon  his  father  of  sadness  and  reproach. 

"Father,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  sounded  stern,  almost 
commanding,  "I  will  show  you  where  I  have  b^en;  follow  me, 
—  nay,  I  say,  follow." 

He  turned,  without  another  word  re-ascended  the  stairs; 
and  Mr.  Beaufort,  surprised  and  awed  into  mechanical  obedi- 


104  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

ence,  did  as  his  son  desired.  At  the  landing-place  of  the 
second  floor,  another  long-wicked,  neglected,  ghastly'  candle 
emitted  its  cheerless  ray.  It  gleamed  through  the  open  door 
of  a  small  bedroom  to  the  left,  through  which  Beaufort  per- 
ceived the  forms  of  two  women.  One  (it  was  the  kindly 
maid-servant)  was  seated  on  a  chair,  and  weeping  bitterly; 
the  other  (it  was  a  hireling  nurse,  in  the  first  and  last  day  of 
her  attendance)  was  unpinning  her  dingy  shawl  before  she  lay 
down  to  take  a  nap.  She  turned  her  vacant,  listless  face  upon 
the  two  men,  put  on  a  doleful  smile,  and  decently  closed  the 
door. 

"Where  are  we,  I  say,  Arthur?"  repeated  Mr.  Beaufort. 
Arthur  took  his  father's  hand,  drew  him  into  a  room  to  the 
right,  and  taking  up  the  candle,  placed  it  on  a  small  table 
beside  a  bed,  and  said,  "  Here,  sir  —  in  the  presence  of 
Death!" 

Mr.  Beaufort  cast  a  hurried  and  fearful  glance  on  the  still, 
wan,  serene  face  beneath  his  eyes,  and  recognized  in  that 
glance  the  features  of  the  neglected  and  the  once-adcred 
Catherine. 

"  Yes,  she,  whom  your  brother  so  loved,  the  mother  of  his 
children,  died  in  this  squalid  room,  and  far  from  her  sons,  in 
poverty,  in  sorrow !  died  of  a  broken  heart !  Was  that  well. 
Father?  Have  you  in  this  nothing  to  repent?  " 
•  Conscience-stricken  and  appalled,  the  worldly  man  sank 
down  on  a  seat  beside  the  bed,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

"Ay,"  continued  Arthur,  almost  bitterly, — "ay,  we,  his 
nearest  of  kin,  we  who  have  inherited  his  lands  and  gold,  we 
have  been  thiis  heedless  of  the  great  legacy  your  brother 
bequeathed  to  us,  the  things  dearest  to  him,  — the  woman  he 
loved,  the  children  his  death  cast,  nameless  and  branded,  on 
the  world.  Ay,  weep.  Father;  and  while  you  weep,  think  of 
the  future,  of  reparation.  I  have  sworn  to  that  clay  to 
befriend  her  sons ;  join  you,  who  have  all  the  power  to  fulfil 
the  promise,  join  in  that  vow;  and  may  Heaven  not  visit  on 
us  both  the  woes  of  this  bed  of  death !  " 

"  I  did  not  know  —  I  —  I  —  "  faltered  Mr.  Beaufort. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  105 

"But  we  should  have  known,"  interrupted  Arthur,  mourn- 
fully. "Ah,  my  dear  Father!  do  not  harden  your  heart  by 
false  excuses.  The  dead  still  speaks  to  you,  and  commends 
to  your  care  her  children.  My  task  here  is  done;  O  sir! 
yours  is  to  come.     I  leave  you  alone  with  the  dead." 

So  saying,  the  young  man,  whom  the  tragedy  of  the  scene 
had  worked  into  a  passion  and  a  dignity  above  his  usual  char- 
acter, unwilling  to  trust  himself  further  to  his  emotions, 
turned  abruptly  from  the  room,  fled  rapidly  down  the  stairs, 
and  left  the  house.  As  the  carriage  and  liveries  of  his  father 
met  his  eye,  he  groaned;  for  their  evidences  of  comfort  and 
wealth  seemed  a  mockery  to  the  deceased.  He  averted  his 
face  and  walked  on;  nor  did  he  heed  or  even  perceive  a  form 
that  at  that  instant  rushed  by  him  —  pale,  haggard,  breathless 
—  towards  the  house  which  he  had  quitted,  and  the  door  of 
which  he  left  open,  as  he  had  found  it,  —  open,  as  the  physi- 
cian had  left  it  when  hurrying,  ten  minutes  before  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Beaufort,  from  the  spot  where  his  skill  was  impotent. 
Wrapped  in  gloomy  thought,  alone,  and  on  foot,  at  that  dreary 
hour  and  in  that  remote  suburb,  the  heir  of  the  Beauforts 
sought  his  splendid  home.  Anxious,  fearful,  hoping,  the  out- 
cast orphan  flew  on  to  the  death-room  of  his  mother. 

Mr.  Beaufort,  who  had  but  imperfectly  heard  Arthur's 
parting  accents,  lost  and  bewildered  by  the  strangeness  of  his 
situation,  did  not  at  first  perceive  that  he  was  left  alone. 
Surprised,  and  chilled  by  the  sudden  silence  of  the  chamber, 
he  rose,  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  face,  and  again  he  saw 
that  countenance  so  mute  and  solemn.  He  cast  his  gaze 
round  the  dismal  room  for  Arthur ;  he  called  his  name  —  no 
answer  came.  A  superstitious  tremor  seized  upon  him;  his 
limbs  shook;  he  sank  once  more  on  his  seat,  and  closed  his 
eyes,  —  muttering,  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  since  his  child- 
hood, words  of  penitence  and  prayer.  He  was  roused  from 
this  bitter  self -abstraction  by  a  deep  groan.  It  seemed  to 
come  from  the  bed.  Did  his  ears  deceive  him?  Had  the 
dead  found  a  voice?  He  started  up  in  an  agony  of  dread,  and 
saw  opposite  to  him  the  livid  countenance  of  Philip  Morton. 
The  Son  of  the  Corpse  had  replaced  the  Son  of  the  Living  Man! 


106  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

The  dim  and  solitary  light  fell  upon  that  countenance.  There, 
all  the  bloom  and  freshness  natural  to  youth  seemed  blasted! 
There,  on  those  wast.ed  features,  played  all  the  terrible  power 
and  glare  of  precocious  passions,  —  rage,  woe,  scorn,  despair. 
Terrible  is  it  to  see  upon  the  face  of  a  boy  the  storm  and 
whirlwind  that  should  visit  only  the  strong  heart  of  man ! 

"  She  is  dead!  dead!  and  in  your  presence!  "  shouted  Philip, 
with  his  wild  eyes  fixed  upon  the  cowering  uncle ;  "  dead  with 
care,  perhaps  with  famine.  And  you  have  come  to  look  upon 
your  work !  " 

"Indeed,"  said  Beaufort,  deprecatingly,  "I  have  but  just 
arrived :  I  did  not  know  she  had  been  ill,  or  in  want,  upon  my 
honour.  This  is  all  a  —  a  —  mistake :  I  —  I  —  came  in  search 
of  —  of  —  another  —  " 

"You  did  7iot,  then,  come  to  relieve  her?"  said  Philip, 
very  calmly.  "You  had  not  learned  her  suffering  and  dis- 
tress, and  flown  hither  in  the  hope  that  there  was  yet  time 
to  save  her?  You  did  not  do  this?  Ha!  ha!  why  did  I 
think  it?" 

"Did  any  one  call,  gentlemen?"  said  a  whining  voice  at  the 
door;  and  the  nurse  put  in  her  head. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  may  come  in,"  said  Beaufort,  shaking  with 
nameless  and  cowardly  apprehension;  but  Philip  had  flown 
to  the  door,  and  gazing  on  the  nurse,  said,  — 

"She  is  a  stranger!  see,  a  stranger!  The  son  now  has 
assumed  his  post.  Begone,  woman ! "  And  he  pushed  her 
away,  and  drew  the  bolt  across  the  door. 

And  then  there  looked  upon  him,  as  there  had  looked  upon 
his  reluctant  companion,  calm  and  holy,  the  face  of  the  peace- 
ful corpse.  He  burst  into  tears,  and  fell  on  his  knees  so  close 
to  Beaufort  that  he  touched  him ;  he  took  up  the  heavy  hand, 
and  covered  it  with  burning  kisses. 

"Mother!  Mother!  do  not  leave  me!  wake,  smile  once  more 
on  your  son !  I  would  have  brought  you  money,  but  I  could 
not  have  asked  for  your  blessing  then;  Mother,  I  ask  it 
now 


I » 


"  If  I  had  but  known,  if  you  had  but  written  to  me,  my  dear 
young  gentleman;  but  my  offers  had  been  refused,  and  —  " 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  107 

"  Offers  of  a  hireling's  pittance  to  her,  —  to  her  for  whom 
my  father  would  have  coined  his  heart's  blood  into  gold!  My 
father's  wife!  his  wife!  offers  —  " 

He  rose  suddenly,  folded  his  arms,  and  facing  Beaufort 
with  a  fierce  determined  brow  said,  — 

"  Mark  me,  you  hold  the  wealth  that  I  was  trained  from  my 
cradle  to  consider  my  heritage.  I  have  worked  with  these 
hands  for  bread,  and  never  complained,  except  to  my  own 
heart  and  soul.  I  never  hated,  and  never  cursed  you,  robber 
as  you  were,  —  yes,  robber !  For,  even  were  there  no  marriage 
save  in  the  sight  of  God,  neither  my  father  nor  Nature  nor 
Heaven  meant  that  you  should  seize  all,  and  that  there  should 
be  nothing  due  to  the  claims  of  affection  and  blood.  He  was 
not  the  less  my  father,  even  if  the  Church  spoke  not  on  my 
side.  Despoiler  of  the  orphan  and  derider  of  human  love, 
you  are  not  the  less  a  robber,  though  the  law  fences  you 
round  and  men  call  you  honest!  But  I  did  not  hate  you  for 
this.  Now,  in  the  presence  of  my  dead  mother,  —  dead,  far 
from  both  her  sons,  —  now  I  abhor  and  curse  you.  You  may 
think  yourself  safe  when  you  quit  this  room,  —  safe,  and  from 
my  hatred;  you  may  be  so:  but  do  not  deceive  yourself.  The 
curse  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan  shall  pursue,  it  shall  cling 
to  you  and  yours ;  it  shall  gnaw  your  heart  in  the  midst  of 
splendour;  it  shall  cleave  to  the  heritage  of  your  son!  There 
shall  be  a  death-bed  yet,  beside  which  you  shall  see  the  spectre 
of  her,  now  so  calm,  rising  for  retribution  from  the  grave! 
These  words  —  no,  you  never  shall  forget  them ;  years  hence 
they  shall  ring  in  your  ears,  and  freeze  the  marrow  of  your 
bones!  And  now  begone,  my  father's  brother,  — begone  from 
my  mother's  corpse  to  your  luxurious  home! " 

He  opened  the  door,  and  pointed  to  the  stairs.  Beaufort, 
without  a  word,  turned  from  the  room  and  departed.  He 
heard  the  door  closed  and  locked  as  he  descended  the  stairs ; 
but  he  did  not  hear  the  deep  groans  and  vehement  sobs  in 
which  the  desolate  orphan  gave  vent  to  the  anguish  which 
succeeded  to  the  less  sacred  paroxysm  of  revenge  and  wrath. 


BOOK    11, 


Slbenb  tnarb'^  unb  tturbe  5Jiorgen, 
Slimmer,  nimmev  §tanb  iH)  §till. 

Schiller  :  Der  Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Incubo.    Look  to  the  cavalier.    What  ails  he  ? 

Hostess.    Aud  in  such  good  clothes,  too ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  Love's  Pilgrimage. 

Theod.    I  have  a  brother,  —  there  my  last  hope  ! 

Thus  as  you  find  me,  without  fear  or  wisdom, 
I  now  am  ouly  child  of  hope  and  danger.  —  Ibid. 

The  time  employed  by  Mr.  Beaufort  in  reaching  his  home 
was  haunted  by  gloomy  and  confused  terrors.  He  felt  inex- 
plicably as  if  the  denunciations  of  Philip  were  to  visit  less 
himself  than  his  son.  He  trembled  at  the  thought  of  Arthur 
meeting  this  strange,  wild,  exasperated  scatterliug  —  perhaps 
on  the  morrow  —  in  the  very  height  of  his  passions ;  and  yet, 
after  the  scene  between  Arthur  and  himself,  he  saw  cause  to 
fear  that  he  might  not  be  able  to  exercise  a  sufficient  authority 
over  his  son,  however  naturally  facile  and  obedient,  to  prevent 
his  return  to  the  house  of  death.  In  this  dilemma  he  resolved, 
as  is  usual  with  cleverer  men,  even  when  yoked  to  yet  feebler 
helpmates,  to  hear  if  his  wife  had  anything  comforting  or 
sensible  to  say  upon  the  subject.  Accordingly,  on  reaching 
Berkeley  Square,  he  went  straight  to  Mrs.  Beaufort;  and  hav- 
ing relieved  her  mind  as  to  Arthur's  safety,  related  the  scene 
in  which  he  had  been  so  unwilling  an  actor.  With  that  more 
lively  susceptibility  which  belongs  to  most  women,  however 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  109 

comparatively  unfeeling,  Mrs.  Beaufort  made  greater  allow- 
ance than  her  husband  for  the  excitement  Philip  had  betrayed. 
Still  Beaufort's  description  of  the  dark  menaces,  the  fierce 
countenance,  the  brigand-like  form,  of  the  bereaved  son,  gave 
her  very  considerable  apprehensions  for  Arthur,  should  the 
young  men  meet;  and  she  willingly  coincided  with  her  hus- 
band in  the  propriety  of  using  all  means  of  parental  persua- 
sion or  command  to  guard  against  such  an  encounter.  But, 
in  the  meanwhile,  Arthur  returned  not,  and  new  fears  seized 
the  anxious  parents.  He  had  gone  forth  alone,  in  a  remote 
suburb  of  the  metropolis,  at  a  late  hour,  himself  under  strong 
excitement.  He  might  have  returned  to  the  house,  or  have 
lost  his  way  amidst  some  dark  haunts  of  violence  and  crime; 
they  knew  not  where  to  send  or  what  to  suggest.  Day  already 
began  to  dawn,  and  still  he  came  not.  At  length,  towards  five 
o'clock,  a  loud  rap  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  Mr.  Beaufort, 
hearing  some  bustle  in  the  hall,  descended.  He  saw  his  son 
borne  into  the  hall  from  a  hackney-coach  by  two  strangers,  — 
pale,  bleeding,  and  apparently  insensible.  His  first  thought 
was  that  he  had  been  murdered  by  Philip.  He  utteted  a 
feeble  cry,  and  sank  down  beside  his  son. 

"Don't  be  darnted,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  strangers,  who 
seemed  an  artisan;  "I  don't  think  he  be  much  hurt.  You 
sees  he  was  crossing  the  street,  and  the  coach  ran  against 
him;  but  it  did  not  go  over  his  head.  It  be  only  the  stones 
that  makes  him  bleed  so;  and  that 's  a  mercy." 

"A  providence,  sir,"  said  the  other  man;  "but  Providence 
watches  over  us  all,  night  and  day,  sleep  or  wake.  Hem! 
We  were  passing  at  the  time  from  the  meeting, — the  Odd 
Fellows,  sir,  — and  so  we  took  him,  and  got  him  a  coach;  for 
we  found  his  card  in  his  pocket.  He  could  not  speak  just 
then ;  but  the  rattling  of  the  coach  did  him  a  deal  of  good, 
for  he  groaned;  my  eyes!  how  he  groaned!  did  he  not, 
Burrows?" 

"It  did  one's  heart  good  to  hear  him." 

"  Run  for  Astley  Cooper!  you,  go  to  Brodie !  Good  heavens ! 
he  is  dying.  Be  quick,  quick!"  cried  Mr.  Beaufort  to  his 
servants,  while  Mrs.  Beaufort,  who  had  now  gained  the  spot. 


110  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

with  greater  presence  of  mind  had  Arthur  conveyed  into  a 
room. 

"It  is  a  judgment  upon  me,"  groaned  Beaufort,  rooted  to 
the  stone  of  his  hall,  and  left  alone  with  the  strangers. 

"No,  sir,  it  is  not  a  judgment ;  it  is  a  lyrovideyice,''^  said  the 
more  sanctimonious  and  better  dressed  of  the  two  men.  "  For, 
put  the  question,  if  it  had  been  a  judgment,  the  wheel  would 
have  gone  over  him,  but  it  didn't;  and  whether  he  dies  or 
not,  I  shall  always  say  that  if  that 's  not  a  providence,  I  don't 
know  what  is.  We  have  come  a  long  way,  sir;  and  Burrows 
is  a  poor  man,  though  I  'm  well  to  do." 

This  hint  for  money  restored  Beaufort  to  his  recollection; 
he  put  his  purse  into  the  nearest  hand  outstretched  to  clutch 
it,  and  muttered  forth  something  like  thanks. 

"  Sir,  may  the  Lord  bless  you !  and  I  hope  the  young  gen- 
tleman will  do  well.  I  am  sure  you  have  cause  to  be  thankful 
that  he  was  within  an  inch  of  the  wheel;  was  he  not,  Bur- 
rows? Well,  it's  enough  to  convert  a  heathen.  But  the 
ways  of  Providence  are  mysterious,  and  that 's  the  truth  of 
it.     (jood  night,  sir." 

Certainly  it  did  seem  as  if  the  curse  of  Philip  was  already 
at  its  work.  An  accident  almost  similar  to  that  which  in  the 
adventure  of  the  blind  man  had  led  Arthur  to  the  clew  of 
Catherine,  within  twenty-four  hours  stretched  Arthur  himself 
upon  his  bed.  The  sorrow  Mr.  Beaufort  had  not  relieved  was 
now  at  his  own  hearth.  But  there  were  parents  and  nurses, 
and  great  physicians  and  skilful  surgeons,  and  all  the  army 
that  combine  against  Death;  and  there  were  ease  and  luxury, 
and  kind  eyes  and  pitying  looks,  and  all  that  can  take  the 
sting  from  pain.  And  thus,  the  very  night  on  which  Cathe- 
rine had  died,  broken  down  and  worn  out,  upon  a  strange 
breast,  with  a  feeless  doctor,  and  by  the  ray  of  a  single  candle, 
the  heir  to  the  fortunes  once  destined  to  her  son  wrestled  also 
with  the  grim  Tyrant,  who  seemed,  however,  scared  from  his 
prey  by  the  arts  and  luxuries  which  the  world  of  rich  men 
raises  up  in  defiance  of  the  grave. 

Arthur  was,  indeed,  very  seriously  injured;  one  of  his  ribs 
was  broken,  and  he  had  received  two  severe  contusions  on  the 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  Ill 

head.  To  insensibility  succeeded  fever,  followed  by  delirium 
He  was  in  imminent  danger  for  several  days.  If  anything 
could  console  his  parents  for  such  an  affliction,  it  was  the 
thought  that,  at  least,  he  was  saved  from  the  chance  of  meet- 
ing Philip. 

Mr.  Beaufort,  in  the  instinct  of  that  capricious  and  fluc- 
tuating conscience  which  belongs  to  weak  minds,  which 
remains  still  and  drooping  and  lifeless  as  a  flag  on  a  mast- 
head during  the  calm  of  prosperity,  but  flutters  and  flaps  and 
tosses  when  the  wind  blows  and  the  wave  heaves,  thought 
very  acutely  and  remorsefully  of  the  condition  of  the  Mortons 
during  the  danger  of  his  own  son.  So  far,  indeed,  from  his 
anxiety  for  Arthur  monopolizing  all  his  care,  it  only  sharp- 
ened his  charity  towards  the  orphans;  for  many  a  man 
becomes  devout  and  good  when  he  fancies  he  has  an  imme- 
diate interest  in  appeasing  Providence.  The  morning  after 
Arthur's  accident,  he  sent  for  Mr.  Blackwell.  He  commis- 
sioned him  to  see  that  Catherine's  funeral  rites  were  per- 
formed with  all  due  care  and  attention;  he  bade  him  obtain 
an  interview  with  Philip,  and  assure  the  youth  of  Mr.  Beau- 
fort's good  and  friendly  disposition  towards  him,  and  to  offer 
to  forward  his  views  in  any  course  of  education  he  might  pre- 
fer, or  any  profession  he  might  adopt ;  and  he  earnestly  coun- 
selled the  lawyer  to  employ  all  his  tact  and  delicacy  in 
conferring  with  one  of  so  proud  and  fiery  a  temper.  Mr. 
Blackwell,  however,  had  no  tact  or  delicacy  to  employ.  He 
went  to  the  house  of  mourning,  forced  his  way  to  Philip ;  and 
the  very  exordium  of  his  harangue,  which  was  devoted  to 
praises  of  the  extraordinary  generosity  and  benevolence  of  his 
employer,  mingled  with  condescending  admonitions  towards 
gratitude  from  Philip,  so  exasperated  the  boy  that  Mr.  Black- 
well  was  extremely  glad  to  get  out  of  the  house  with  a 
whole  skin.  He,  however,  did  not  neglect  the  more  formal 
part  of  his  mission;  but  communicated  immediately  with  a 
fashionable  undertaker,  and  gave  orders  for  a  very  genteel 
funeral.  He  thought  after  the  funeral  that  Philip  would  be 
in  a  less  excited  state  of  mind,  and  more  likely  to  hear  reason. 
He  therefore  deferred  a  second  interview  with  the  orphan  till 


112  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

after  that  event;  and  in  the  meanwhile  despatched  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Beaufort,  stating  that  he  had  attended  to  his  instructions ; 
that  the  orders  for  the  funeral  were  given;  but  that  at  present 
Mr.  Philip  Morton's  mind  was  a  little  disordered,  and  that  he 
could  not  calmly  discuss  the  plans  for  the  future  suggested  by 
Mr.  Beaufort.  He  did  not  doubt,  however,  that  in  another 
interview  all  would  be  arranged  according  to  the  wishes  his 
client  had  so  nobly  conveyed  to  him.  Mr.  Beaufort's  con- 
science on  this  point  was  therefore  set  at  rest. 

It  was  a  dull,  close,  oppressive  morning  upon  which  the 
remains  of  Catherine  Morton  were  consigned  to  the  grave. 
With  the  preparations  for  the  funeral  Philip  did  not  inter- 
fere ;  he  did  not  inquire  by  whose  orders  all  that  solemnity  of 
mutes  and  coaches  and  black  plumes  and  crape  bands  was 
appointed.  If  his  vague  and  undeveloped  conjecture  ascribed 
this  last  and  vain  attention  to  Robert  Beaufort,  it  neither  les- 
sened the  sullen  resentment  he  felt  against  his  uncle,  nor  on 
the  other  hand  did  he  conceive  that  he  had  a  right  to  forbid 
respect  to  the  dead,  though  he  might  reject  service  for  the 
survivor.  Since  Mr.  Blackwell's  visit,  he  had  remained  in  a 
sort  of  apathy  or  torpor,  which  seemed  to  the  people  of  the 
house  to  partake  rather  of  indifference  than  woe. 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  Philip  had  returned  to  the  apart- 
ments occupied  by  the  deceased;  and  now,  for  the  first  time, 
he  set  himself  to  examine  what  papers,  etc.,  she  had  left 
behind.  In  an  old  escritoire,  he  found,  first,  various  packets 
of  letters  in  his  father's  handwriting,  the  characters  in  many 
of  them  faded  by  time.  He  opened  a  few ;  they  were  the  earli- 
est love-letters.  He  did  not  dare  to  read  above  a  few  lines, 
—  so  much  did  their  living  tenderness  and  breathing,  frank, 
hearty  passion  contrast  with  the  fate  of  the  adored  one.  In 
those  letters,  the  very  heart  of  the  writer  seemed  to  beat! 
Now  both  hearts  alike  were  stilled,  and  Ghost  called  vainly 
unto  Ghost! 

He  came,  at  length,  to  a  letter  in  his  mother's  hand, 
addressed  to  himself,  and  dated  two  days  before  her  death. 
He  went  to  the  window,  and  gasped  in  the  mists  of  the  sultry 
air  for  breath.     Below  were  heard  the  noises  of  London,  —  the 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  113 

shrill  cries  of  itinerant  vendors,  the  rolling  carts,  the  whoop 
of  boys  returned  for  a  while  from  school.  Amidst  all  these 
rose  one  loud,  merry  peal  of  laughter,  which  drew  his  atten- 
tion mechanically  to  the  spot  whence  it  camej  it  was  at  the 
threshold  of  a  public-house,  before  which  stood  the  hearse 
that  had  conveyed  his  mother's  coffin,  and  the  gay  under- 
takers, halting  there  to  refresh  themselves.  He  closed  the 
window  with  a  groan,  retired  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
room,  and  read  as  follows :  — 

"  My  Dearest  Philip,  —  When  you  read  this,  I  shall  be  no  more. 
You  and  poor  Sidney  will  have  neither  father  nor  mother,  nor  fortune 
nor  name.  Heaven  is  more  just  than  man,  and  in  Heaven  is  my  hope 
for  you.  You,  Philip,  are  already  past  childhood ;  your  nature  is  one 
formed,  I  think,  to  wrestle  successfully  with  the  world.  Guard 
against  your  own  passions,  and  you  may  bid  defiance  to  the  obstacles 
that  will  beset  your  path  in  life.  And  lately,  in  our  reverses,  Philip, 
you  have  so  subdued  those  passions,  so  schooled  the  pride  and  impetu- 
osity of  your  childhood,  that  I  have  contemplated  your  prospects  with 
less  fear  than  I  used  to  do,  even  when  they  seemed  so  brilliant.  Forgive 
me,  my  dear  child,  if  I  have  concealed  from  you  my  state  of  health,  and 
if  my  death  be  a  sudden  and  unlooked-for  shock.  Do  not  grieve  for  me 
too  long.  For  myself,  my  release  is  indeed  escape  from  the  prison- 
house  and  the  chain,  —  from  bodily  pain  and  mental  torture,  which 
may,  I  fondly  hope,  prove  some  expiation  for  the  errors  of  a  happier 
time;  for  I  did  err,  when,  even  from  the  least  selfish  motives,  I  suf- 
fered my  union  with  your  father  to  remain  concealed,  and  thus  ruined 
the  hopes  of  those  who  had  rights  upon  me  equal  even  to  his.  But, 
O  Philip  1  beware  of  the  first  false  steps  into  deceit ;  beware,  too, 
of  the  passions  which  do  not  betray  their  fruit  till  years  and  years 
after  the  leaves  that  look  so  green  and  the  blossoms  tliat  seemed  so 
fair. 

"I  repeat  my  solemn  injunction,  —  Do  not  grieve  for  me;  but 
strengthen  your  mind  and  heart  to  receive  the  charge  that  I  now  con- 
fide to  you,  —  my  Sidney,  my  child,  your  brother !  He  is  so  soft,  so 
gentle,  he  has  been  so  dependent  for  very  life  upon  me,  and  we  are 
parted  now  for  the  first  and  last  time  !  He  is  with  strangers  ;  and  — 
and  —  oh,  Philip,  Philip,  watch  over  him  for  the  love  you  bear,  not  only 
to  him,  but  to  me  !  Be  to  him  a  father  as  well  as  a  brother.  Put  your 
stout  heart  against  the  world,  so  that  you  may  screen  him,  the  weak 
child,  from  its  malice.      He  has  not  your  talents  nor  strength  of  charac- 


114  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

ter  ;  without  you  he  is  nothing.  Live,  toil,  rise  for  his  sake  not  less 
than  your  own.  If  you  knew  how  this  heart  beats  as  I  write  to  you,  if 
you  could  conceive  what  comfort  I  take  for  him  from  my  confidence  in 
you,  you  would  feel  a  new  spirit,  my  spirit,  my  mother-spirit  of  love  and 
forethought  and  vigilance,  enter  into  you  while  you  read.  See  him 
when  I  am  gone ;  comfort  and  soothe  him.  Happily  he  is  too  young  yet 
to  know  all  his  loss ;  and  do  not  let  him  think  unkindly  of  me  in  the 
days  to  come,  for  he  is  a  child  now,  and  they  may  poison  his  mind 
against  me  more  easily  than  they  can  yours.  Think,  if  he  is  un- 
happy hereafter,  he  may  forget  how  I  loved  him,  he  may  curse  those 
who  gave  him  birth.  Forgive  me  all  this,  Philip,  my  son,  and  heed  it  well. 
"  And  now,  where  you  find  this  letter,  you  will  see  a  key  ;  it  opens  a 
well  in  the  bureau  in  which  I  have  hoarded  my  little  savings.  You  will 
see  that  I  have  not  died  in  poverty.  Take  what  there  is,  —  young  as 
you  are  you  may  want  it  more  now  than  hereafter ;  but  hold  it  in  trust 
for  your  brother  as  well  as  yourself.  If  he  is  harshly  treated  (and  you 
will  go  and  see  him,  and  you  will  remember  that  he  would  writhe  under 
what  you  might  scarcely  feel),  or  if  they  overtask  him  (he  is  so  young  to 
work),  yet  it  may  find  him  a  home  near  you.  God  watch  over  and 
guard  you  both  !  You  are  orphans  now.  But  He  has  told  even  the 
orphans  to  call  him  '  Father  1 '  " 

When  he  had  read  this  letter,  Philip  Morton  fell  upon  his  • 
knees,  and  prayed. 


CHAPTER  II. 

His  cnrse  !    Dost  comprehend  what  that  word  means, 
Shot  from  a  father's  angry  breath  1 

James  Shirley:    The  Brothers. 

This  term  is  fatal,  and  affrights  me.  —  Ibid. 

Those  fond  philosophers  that  magnify 

Our  human  nature  .  .  . 

Conversed  but  little  with  the  world ;  they  knew  not 

The  Jierce  vexation  ofcommuniij/!  —  Ibid. 

After  he  had  recovered  his  self-possession,  Philip  opened 
the  well  of  the  bureau,  and  was  astonished  and  affected  to  find 
that  Catherine  had  saved  more  than  £100.     Alas!  how  much 


NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG.  115 

must  she  have  pinelied  herself  to  have  hoarded  this  little 
treasure!  After  burniug  his  father's  love-letters,  and  some 
other  papers,  which  he  deemed  useless,  he  made  up  a  little 
bundle  of  those  trifling  effects  belonging  to  the  deceased  which 
he  valued  as  memorials  and  relics  of  her,  quitted  the  apart- 
ment, and  descended  to  the  parlour  behind  the  shop.  On  the 
way  he  met  with  the  kind  servant,  and  recalling  the  grief  that 
she  had  manifested  for  his  mother  since  he  had  been  in  the 
house,  he  placed  two  sovereigns  in  her  hand.  "And  now," 
said  he,  as  the  servant  wept  while  he  spoke,  "  now  I  can  bear 
to  ask  you  what  I  have  not  before  done.  How  did  my  poor 
mother  die?     Did  she  suffer  much?  or  —  or  —  " 

"She  went  off  like  a  lamb,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  drying  her 
eyes.  "  You  see  the  gentleman  had  been  with  her  all  the  day, 
and  she  was  much  more  easy  and  comfortable  in  her  mind 
after  he  came." 

"The  gentleman!     Not  the  gentleman  I  found  here?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  Not  the  pale  middle-aged  gentleman  nurse 
and  I  saw  go  down  as  the  clock  struck  two.  But  the  young, 
soft-spoken  gentleman  who  came  in  the  morning,  and  said  as 
how  he  was  a  relation.  He  stayed  with  her  till  she  slept; 
and,  when  she  woke,  she  smiled  in  his  face;  I  shall  never 
forget  that  smile,  for  I  was  standing  on  the  other  side,  as  it 
might  be  here,  and  the  doctor  was  by  the  window,  pouring  out 
the  doctor's  stuff  in  the  glass ;  and  so  she  looked  on  the  young 
gentleman,  and  then  looked  round  at  us  all,  and  shook  her 
head  very  gently,  but  did  not  speak.  And  the  gentleman 
asked  her  how  she  felt,  and  she  took  both  his  hands  and 
kissed  them ;  and  then  he  put  his  arms  round  and  raised  her 
up  to  take  the  physic  like,  and  she  said  then,  '  You  will  never 
forget  them?  '  and  he  said,  '  Never.'  I  don't  know  what  that 
meant,  sir! " 

"AVell,  well,  go  on." 

"  And  her  head  fell  back  on  his  buzzom,  and  she  looked  so 
happy;  and  when  the  doctor  came  to  the  bedside  she  was 
quite  gone." 

"And  the  stranger  had  my  post!  No  matter;  God  bless 
him,  God  bless  him!     Who  was  he;  what  was  his  name?" 


116  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"I  don't  know,  sir;  he  did  not  say.  He  stayed  after  the 
doctor  went,  and  cried  very  bitterly ;  he  took  on  more  than 
you  did,  sir." 

-Ay." 

"  And  the  other  gentleman  came  just  as  he  was  a-going,  and 
they  did  not  seem  to  like  each  other;  for  I  heard  him  through 
the  wall,  as  nurse  and  I  were  in  the  next  room,  speak  as  if  he 
was  scolding;  but  he  did  not  stay  long." 

"And  has  never  been  seen  since?" 

"No,  sir.  Perhaps  missus  can  tell  you  more  about  him. 
But  won't  you  take  something,  sir?     Do,  — you  look  so  pale." 

Philip,  without  speaking,  pushed  her  gently  aside,  and  went 
slowly  down  the  stairs.  He  entered  the  parlour,  where  two 
or  three  children  were  seated,  playing  at  dominos;  he  de- 
spatched one  for  their  mother,  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  who 
came  in,  and  dropped  him  a  courtesy,  with  a  very  grave,  sad 
face,  as  was  proper. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  your  house,  ma'am;  and  I  wish  to 
settle  any  little  arrears  of  rent,  etc." 

"Oh,  sir!  don't  mention  it,"  said  the  landlady;  and  as  she 
spoke,  she  took  a  piece  of  paper  from  her  bosom,  very  neatly 
folded,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  "And  here,  sir,"  she  added, 
taking  from  the  same  depository  a  card,  —  "  here  is  the  card 
left  by  the  gentleman  who  saw  to  the  funeral.  He  called  half 
an  hour  ago,  and  bade  me  say,  with  his  compliments,  that  he 
would  wait  on  you  to-morrow  at  eleven  o'clock.  So  I  hope 
you  won't  go  yet,  for  I  think  he  means  to  settle  everything 
for  you;  he  said  as  much,  sir." 

Philip  glanced  over  the  card,  and  read,  "Mr.  George 
Blackwell,  Lincoln's  Inn."  His  brow  grew  dark;  he  let  the 
card  fall  on  the  ground,  put  his  foot  on  it  with  a  quiet  scorn, 
and  muttered  to  himself,  "  The  lawyer  shall  not  bribe  me  out 
of  my  curse ! "  He  turned  to  the  total  of  the  bill,  —  not 
heavy,  for  poor  Catherine  had  regiilarly  defrayed  the  expense 
of  her  scanty  maintenance  and  humble  lodging,  —  paid  the 
money,  and  as  the  landlady  wrote  the  receipt,  he  asked, 
"Who  was  the  gentleman,  the  younger  gentleman,  who  called 
in  the  morning  of  the  day  my  mother  died?" 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  117 

"Oh,  sir!  I  am  so  sorry  I  did  not  get  his  name.  Mr. 
Perkins  said  that  he  was  some  relation.  Very  odd  he  has 
never  been  since.  But  he'll  be  sure  to  call  again,  sir;  you 
had  much  better  stay  here." 

"No;  it  does  not  signify.  All  that  he  could  do  is  done. 
But  stay,  give  him  this  note,  if  he  should  call." 

Philip,  taking  the  pen  from  the  landlady's  hand,  hastily 
wrote  (while  Mrs.  Lacy  went  to  bring  him  sealing-wax  and  a 
light)  these  words :  — 

I  cannot  guess  who  you  are;  they  say  that  you  call  yourself  a  rela- 
tion ;  that  must  be  some  mistake.  I  knew  not  that  my  poor  mother  had 
relations  so  kind.  But,  whoever  you  be,  you  soothed  her  last  hours,  she 
died  in  your  arms  ;  and  if  ever  —  years,  long  years  hence  —  we  should 
chance  to  meet,  and  I  can  do  anything  to  aid  another,  my  blood  and 
my  life  and  my  heart  and  my  soul, — all  are  slaves  to  your  will.  If 
you  be  really  of  her  kindred,  I  commend  to  you  my  brother  ;  he  is  at 

,  with  Mr.  Morton.     If  you  can  serve  him,  my  mother's  soul  will 

watch  over  you  as  a  guardian  angel.  As  for  me,  I  ask  no  help  from  any 
one ;  I  go  into  the  world  and  will  carve  out  my  own  way.  So  much  do 
I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  charity  from  others,  that  I  do  not  believe  I 
could  bless  you  as  I  do  now  if  your  kindness  to  me  did  not  close  with  the 
stone  upon  my  mother's  grave.  Philip. 

He  sealed  this  letter,  and  gave  it  to  the  woman. 

"  Oh,  by  the  by, "  said  she,  "  I  had  forgot ;  the  Doctor  said 
that  if  you  would  send  for  him,  he  would  be  most  happy  to 
call  on  you,  and  give  you  any  advice." 

"Very  well." 

"And  what  shall  I  say  to  Mr.  Blackwell?" 

"That  he  may  tell  his  employer  to  remember  our  last 
interview." 

With  that  Philip  took  up  his  bundle  and  strode  from  the 
house.  He  went  first  to  the  churchyard,  where  his  mother's 
remains  had  been  that  day  interred.  It  was  near  at  hand,  — 
a  quiet,  almost  a  rural,  spot.  The  gate  stood  ajar,  for  there 
was  a  public  path  through  the  churchyard,  and  Philip  entered 
with  a  noiseless  tread.  It  was  then  near  evening;  the  sun 
had  broken  out  from  the  mists  of  the  efirlier  day,  and  the 
westering  rays  shone  bright  and  holy  upon  the  solemn  place. 


118  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

'•  Mother !  Mother !  "  sobbed  the  orphan,  as  he  fell  prostrate 
before  that  fresh  green  mound;  "here,  here  I  have  come  to 
repeat  my  oath,  to  swear  again  that  I  will  be  faithful  to  the 
charge  you  have  entrusted  to  your  wretched  son !  And  at  this 
hour  I  dare  ask  if  there  be  on  this  earth  one  more  miserable 
and  forlorn?" 

As  words  to  this  effect  struggled  from  his  lips,  a  loud, 
shrill  voice,  the  cracked,  painful  voice  of  weak  age  wrestling 
with  strong  passion,  rose  close  at  hand. 

"Away,  reprobate!  thou  art  accursed!  " 

Philip  started,  and  shuddered  as  if  the  words  were  addressed 
to  himself,  and  from  the  grave ;  but  as  he  rose  on  his  knee, 
and  tossing  the  wild  hair  from  his  eyes  looked  confusedly 
round,  he  saw  at  a  short  distance,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  two  forms,  —  the  one  an  old  man  with  gray  hair,  who 
was  seated  on  a  crumbling  wooden  tomb,  facing  the  setting 
sun;  the  other  a  man  apparently  yet  in  the  vigour  of  life, 
who  appeared  bent  as  in  humble  supplication.  The  old  man's 
hands  were  outstretched  over  the  head  of  the  younger,  as  if 
suiting  terrible  action  to  the  terrible  words,  and  after  a 
moment's  pause  —  a  moment,  but  it  seemed  far  longer  to 
Philip  —  there  was  heard  a  deep,  wild,  ghastly  howl  from  a 
dog  that  cowered  at  the  old  man's  feet;  a  howl,  perhaps  of 
fear  at  the  passion  of  his  master,  which  the  animal  might 
associate  with  danger. 

"Father!  Father!"  said  the  suppliant,  reproachfully,  "your 
very  dog  rebukes  your  curse." 

"  Be  dumb !  My  dog !  What  hast  thou  left  me  on  earth  but 
him?  Thou  hast  made  me  loathe  the  sight  of  friends,  for 
thou  hast  made  me  loathe  mine  own  name.  Thou  hast  cov- 
ered it  with  disgrace ;  thou  hast  turned  mine  old  age  into  a 
by-word;  thy  crimes  leave  me  solitary  in  the  midst  of  my 
shame ! " 

"It  is  many  years  since  we  met.  Father;  we  may  never 
meet  again.     Shall  we  part  thus?  " 

"  Thus,  aha ! "  ^aid  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  withering 
sarcasm,   "  I  comprehend,  —  you  are  come  for  money !  " 

At  this  taunt  the  son  started  as  if  stung  by  a  serpent, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  119 

raised   his    head   to    its   full   height,    folded   his  arms,    and 
replied,  — 

"Sir,  you  wrong  me;  for  more  than  twenty  years  I  have 
maintained  myself,  — no  matter  how,  but  without  taxing  you, 
—  and  now  I  felt  remorse  for  having  suffered  you  to  discard 
me,  —  now,  when  you  are  old  and  helpless,  and,  I  heard, 
blind,  and  you  might  want  aid,  even  from  your  poor  good-for- 
nothing  son.  But  I  have  done.  Forget, — not  my  sins,  but 
this  interview.  Eepeal  your  curse.  Father,  I  have  enough  on 
my  head  without  yours;  and  so  —  let  the  son  at  least  bless 
the  father  who  curses  him.     Farewell !  " 

The  speaker  turned  as  he  thus  said,  with  a  voice  that 
trembled  at  the  close,  and  brushed  rapidly  by  Philip,  whom 
he  did  not,  however,  appear  to  perceive;  but  Philip,  by  the 
last  red  beam  of  the  sun,  saw  again  that  marked  storm-beaten 
face  which  it  was  difficult,  once  seen,  to  forget,  and  recog- 
nized the  stranger  on  whose  breast  he  had  slept  the  night  of 
his  fatal  visit  to  E . 

The  old  man's  imperfect  vision  did  not  detect  the  departure 
of  his  son;  but  his  face  changed  and  softened  as  the  latter 
strode  silently  through  the  rank  grass. 

"  William !  "  he  said  at  last,  gently ;  "  William  !  "  and  the 
tears  rolled  down  his  furrowed  cheeks ;  "  my  son ! "  but  that 
son  was  gone.  The  old  man  listened  for  reply;  none  came. 
"  He  has  left  me,  poor  William !  we  shall  never  meet  again ; " 
and  he  sank  once  more  on  the  old  tombstone,  dumb,  rigid, 
motionless,  —  an  image  of  Time  himself  in  his  own  domain  of 
Graves.  The  dog  crept  closer  to  his  master,  and  licked  his 
hand.  Philip  stood  for  a  moment  in  thoughtful  silence ;  his 
exclamation  of  despair  had  been  answered  as  by  his  better 
angel.  There  was  a  being  more  miserable  than  himself;  and 
the  Accursed  would  have  envied  the  Bereaved! 

The  twilight  had  closed  in.  The  earliest  star  —  the  star  of 
Memory  and  Love,  the  Hesperus  hymned  by  every  poet  since 
the  world  began  —  was  fair  in  the  arch  of  heaven  as  Philip 
quitted  the  spot,  with  a  spirit  more  reconciled  to  the  future, 
more  softened,  chastened,  attuned  to  gentle  and  pious  thoughts 
than  perhaps  ever  yet  had  made  his  soul  dominant  over  the 


120  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

deep  and  dark  tide  of  his  gloomy  passions.  He  went  thence 
to  a  neighbouring  sculptor,  and  paid  beforehand  for  a  plain 
tablet  to  be  placed  above  the  grave  he  had  left.  He  had  just 
quitted  that  shop,  in  the  same  street,  not  many  doors  removed 
from  the  house  in  which  his  mother  had  breathed  her  last. 
He  was  pausing  by  a  crossing,  irresolute  whether  to  repair  at 
once  to  the  home  assigned  to  Sidney,  or  to  seek  some  shelter 
in  town  for  that  night,  when  three  men  who  were  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  way  suddenly  caught  sight  of  him. 

"There  he  is!  there  he  is!     Stop,  sir!  stop!" 

Philip  heard  these  words,  looked  up,  and  recognized  the 
voice  and  the  person  of  Mr,  Plaskwith.  The  bookseller  was 
accompanied  by  Mr.  Plimmins  and  a  sturdy,  ill-favoured 
stranger. 

A  nameless  feeling  of  fear,  rage,  and  disgust  seized  the 
unhappy  boy,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  ragged  vagabond 
whispered  to  him,  "Stump  it,  my  cove;  that's  a  Bow  Street 
runner." 

Then  there  shot  through  Philip's  mind  the  recollection  of 
the  money  he  had  seized,  though  but  to  dash  away.     Was  he 

now he,  still  to  his  own  conviction,  the  heir  of  an  ancient 

and  spotless  name  —  to  be  hunted  as  a  thief;  or,  at  the  best, 
what  right  over  his  person  and  his  liberty  had  he  given  to  his 
taskmaster?  Ignorant  of  the  law,  the  law  only  seemed  to 
him,  as  it  ever  does  to  the  ignorant  and  the  friendless,  a  Foe. 
Quicker  than  lightning  these  thoughts,  which  it  takes  so  many 
words  to  describe,  flashed  through  the  storm  and  darkness  of 
his  breast;  and  at  the  very  instant  that  Mr.  Plimmins  had 
laid  hands  on  his  shoulder  his  resolution  was  formed.  The 
instinct  of  self  beat  loud  at  his  heart.  With  a  bound,  a 
spring  that  sent  Mr.  Plimmins  sprawling  in  the  kennel,  he 
darted  across  the  road,  and  fled  down  an  opposite  lane. 

"Stop  him!  stop!"  cried  the  bookseller,  and  the  officer 
rushed  after  him  with  almost  equal  speed.  Lane  after  lane, 
alley  after  alley,  fled  Philip,  dodging,  winding;  breathless, 
panting;  and  lane  after  lane,  and  alley  after  alley,  thickened 
at  his  heels  the  crowd  that  pursued.  The  idle  and  the  curi- 
ous and  the  officious,  ragged  boys,  ragged  men,  from  stall  and 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  121 

from  cellar,  from  corner  and  from  crossing,  joined  in  that 
delicious  chase,  which  runs  down  young  Error  till  it  sinks,  too 
often,  at  the  door  of  the  jail  or  the  foot  of  the  gallows.  But 
Philip  slackened  not  his  pace;  he  began  to  distance  his  pur- 
suers. He  was  now  in  a  street  which  they  had  not  yet 
entered,  — a  quiet  street,  with  few  if  any  shops.  Before  the 
threshold  of  a  better  kind  of  public-house,  or  rather  tavern, 
to  judge  by  its  appearance,  lounged  two  men;  and  while 
Philip  flew  on,  the  cry  of  "Stop  him!"  had  changed  as  the 
shout  passed  to  new  voices,  into  "Stop  the  thief!"  —  that  cry 
yet  howled  in  the  distance.  One  of  the  loungers  seized  him. 
Philip,  desperate  and  ferocious,  struck  at  him  with  all  his 
force;  but  the  blow  was  scarcely  felt  by  that  Herculean 
frame. 

"  Pish ! "  said  the  man,  scornfully ;  "  I  am  no  spy ;  if  you 
run  from  justice,  I  would  help  you  to  a  sign -post." 

Struck  by  the  voice,  Philip  looked  hard  at  the  speaker.  It 
was  the  voice  of  the  Accursed  Son. 

"Save  me!  you  remember  me?"  said  the  orphan,  faintly. 

"Ah!  I  think  I  do;  poor  lad!     Follow  me;  this  way!  " 

The  stranger  turned  within  the  tavern,  passed  the  hall 
through  a  sort  of  corridor  that  led  into  a  back-yard  which 
opened  upon  a  nest  of  courts  or  passages. 

"You  are  safe  for  the  present;  I  will  take  you  where  you 
can  tell  me  all  at  your  ease.  See!"  As  he  spoke  they 
emerged  into  an  open  street,  and  the  guide  pointed  to  a  row 
of  hackney  coaches.  "Be  quick;  get  in.  Coachman,  drive 
fast  to  ~" 

Philip  did  not  hear  the  rest  of  the  direction. 

Our  story  returns  to  Sidney. 


122  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 


CHAPTER   in. 

Nous  vous  mettrons  a  couvert, 

Repondit  le  pot  de  fer  : 

Si  quelque  matiere  dure 
"Vons  menace  d'aveuture, 

Entre  deux  je  passerai, 

Et  du  coup  vous  sauverai. 

Le  pot  de  terre  en  souffre !  ^  —  La  Foxtaine. 

"SiDXET,  come  here,  sir!  "What  have  you  been  at?  you 
have  torn  your  frill  into  tatters!  How  did  you  do  this? 
Come,  sir,  no  lies." 

"Indeed,  ma'am,  it  was  not  my  fault.  I  just  put  my  head 
out  of  the  window  to  see  the  coach  go  by,  and  a  nail  caught 
me  here." 

"Why,  you  little  plague!  you  hare  scratched  yourself;  you 
are  always  in  mischief.  What  business  had  you  to  look  after 
the  coach?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sidney,  hanging  his  head  ruefully. 

"  La,  Mother !  "  cried  the  youngest  of  the  cousins,  a  square- 
built,  ruddy,  coarse-featured  urchin,  about  Sidney's  age,  — 
"  la,  Mother,  he  never  see  a  coach  in  the  street  when  we  are 
at  play  but  he  runs  arter  it." 

"After,  not  arter,"  said  Mr.  Roger  Morton,  taking  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth. 

"Why  do  you  go  after  the  coaches,  Sidney?"  said  Mrs. 
Morton.  "It  is  very  naughty;  you  will  be  run  over  some 
day." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Sidney,  who  during  the  whole  colloquy 
had  been  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

1  "  We,  replied  the  Iron  Pot,  will  shield  yon.  Should  anv  hard  substance 
menace  you  with  danger,  I  '11  intervene,  and  save  you  from  the  shock.  .  .  . 
The  Earthern  Pot  was  the  sufferer !  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  123 

" '  Yes,  ma'am, '  and  '  no,  ma'am ; '  you  have  no  more  man- 
ners than  a  cobbler's  boy." 

"Don't  tease  the  chHd,  my  dear;  he  is  crying,"  said  Mr, 
Morton,  more  authoritatively  than  usual.  "Come  here,  my 
man ! "  and  the  worthy  uncle  took  him  in  his  lap  and  held  his 
glass  of  brandy-and-water  to  his  lips ;  Sidney,  too  frightened 
to  refuse,  sipped  hurriedly,  keeping  his  large  eyes  fixed  on  his 
aunt,  as  children  do  when  they  fear  a  cuff. 

"You  spoil  the  boy  more  than  you  do  your  own  flesh  and 
blood,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  greatly  displeased. 

Here  Tom,  the  youngest-born  before  described,  put  his 
mouth  to  his  mother's  ear,  and  whispered  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  by  all,  "He  runs  arter  the  coach  'cause  he  thinks  his 
ma  maybe  in  it.  Who's  home-sick  I  should  like  to  know? 
i3a!  Baa!" 

The  boy  pointed  his  finger  over  his  mother's  shoulder,  and 
the  other  children  burst  into  a  loud  giggle. 

"  Leave  the  room,  all  of  you ;  leave  the  room ! "  said  Mr. 
Morton,  rising  angrily  and  stamping  his  foot. 

The  children,  who  were  in  great  awe  of  their  father,  huddled 
and  hustled  each  other  to  the  door;  but  Tom,  who  went  last, 
bold  in  his  mother's  favour,  popped  his  head  through  the 
doorway,  and  cried,   "Good-by,  little  home-sick!" 

A  sudden  slap  in  the  face  from  his  father  changed  his 
chuckle  into  a  very  different  kind  of  music,  and  a  loud  indig- 
nant sob  was  heard  without  for  some  moments  after  the  door 
was  closed. 

"If  that's  the  way  you  behave  to  your  children,  Mr. 
Morton,  I  vow  you  sha'  n't  have  any  more  if  I  can  help  it. 
Don't  come  near  me;  don't  touch  me!"  and  Mrs.  Morton 
assumed  the  resentful  air  of  offended  beauty. 

"  Pshaw !  "  growled  the  spouse,  and  he  reseated  himself  and 
resumed  his  pipe.  There  was  a  dead  silence.  Sidney  crouched 
near  his  uncle,  looking  very  pale.  Mrs.  Morton,  who  was 
knitting,  knitted  away  with  the  excited  energy  of  nervous 
irritation. 

"Ring  the  bell,  Sidney,"  said  Mr.  Morton.  The  boy 
obeyed;  the  parlour-maid  entered.     "Take  Master  Sidney  to 


124  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

his  room;  keep  the  boys  away  from  him,  and  give  him  a  large 
slice  of  bread  and  jam,  Martha." 

"Jam,  indeed!  treacle,"  said  Mrs.  Morton. 

"Jam,  Martha,"  repeated  the  uncle,  authoritatively. 

"  Treacle, "  reiterated  the  aunt. 

"  Jam,  I  say !  " 

"Treacle,  you  hear;  and  for  that  matter,  Martha  has  no  jam 
to  give ! " 

The  husband  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

"Good  night,  Sidney;  there  's  a  good  boy,  go  and  kiss  your 
aunt  and  make  your  bow;  and  I  say,  my  lad,  don't  mind  those 
plagues.  I'll  talk  to  them  to-morrow,  that  I  will;  no  one 
shall  be  unkind  to  you  in  my  house." 

Sidney  muttered  something,  and  went  timidly  up  to  Mrs. 
Morton.  His  look  so  gentle  and  subdued;  his  eyes  full  of 
tears ;  his  pretty  mouth  which,  though  silent,  pleaded  so  elo- 
quently; his  willingness  to  forgive,  and  his  wish  to  be  for- 
given, might  have  melted  many  a  heart  harder,  perhaps,  than 
Mrs.  Morton's.  But  there  reigned  what  are  worse  than  hard- 
ness, —  prejudice  and  wounded  vanity,  —  maternal  vanity. 
His  contrast  to  her  own  rough,  coarse  children  grated  on 
her,  and  set  the  teeth  of  her  mind  on  edge. 

"There,  child,  don't  tread  on  my  gown;  you  are  so  awk- 
ward. Say  your  prayers,  and  don't  throw  off  the  counterpane ! 
I  don't  like  slovenly  boys." 

Sidney  put  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  drooped,  and  vanished, 

"Now,  Mrs.  M.,"  said  ]\Ir.  Morton,  abruptly,  and  knocking 
out  the  ashes  of  his  pipe,  "now,  Mrs.  M.,  one  word  for 
all :  I  have  told  you  that  I  promised  poor  Catherine  to  be  a 
father  to  that  child,  and  it  goes  to  my  heart  to  see  him  so 
snubbed.  Why  you  dislike  him  I  can't  guess  for  the  life  of 
me.     I  never  saw  a  sweeter-tempered  child." 

"  Go  on,  sir,  go  on ;  make  your  personal  reflections  on  your 
own  lawful  wife.  They  don't  hurt  me,  oh,  no,  not  at  all! 
Sweet-tempered,  indeed;  I  suppose  your  own  children  are  not 
sweet-tempered?  " 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Mr.  Morton:  "my 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  125 

own  cliildren  are  such  as  God  made  them,  and  I  am  very  well 
satisfied." 

"Indeed  you  may  be  proud  of  such  a  family;  and  to  think 
of  the  pains  I  have  taken  with  them,  and  how  I  have  saved 
you  in  nurses,  and  the  bad  times  I  have  had:  and  now,  to  find 
their  noses  put  out  of  joint  by  that  little  mischief-making 
interloper!  It  is  too  bad  of  you,  Mr.  Morton;  you  will  break 
my  heart,  that  you  will !  " 

Mrs.  Morton  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  sobbed. 

The  husband  was  moved;  he  got  up  and  attempted  to  take 
her  hand.     "Indeed,  Margaret,  I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you." 

"  And  I  who  have  been  such  a  fa — f ai — faithful  wi — wi — 
wife,  and  brought  you  such  a  deal  of  mon— mon — money,  and 
always  stud— stud — studied  your  interests !  Many  's  the  time 
when  you  have  been  fast  asleep  that  I  have  sat  up  half  the 
night  men — men — mending  the  house  linen;  and  you  have  not 
been  the  same  man,  Koger,  since  that  boy  came !  " 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  the  good  man,  quite  overcome,  and  fairly 
taking  her  round  the  waist  and  kissing  her;  "no  words  be- 
tween us ;  it  makes  life  quite  unpleasant.  If  it  pains  you  to 
have  Sidney  here,  I  will  put  him  to  some  school  in  the  town, 
where  they  '11  be  kind  to  him.  Only,  if  you  would,  Margaret, 
for  my  sake  —  old  girl!  come,  now!  there's  a  darling! — just 
be  more  tender  with  him.  You  see  he  frets  so  after  his 
mother.  Think  how  little  Tom  would  fret  if  he  was  away 
from  you !  Poor  little  Tom !  " 

"La!  Mr.  Morton,  you  are  such  a  man!  There  's  no  resist- 
ing your  ways !    You  know  how  to  come  over  me,  don't  you?  " 

And  Mrs.  Morton  smiled  benignly,  as  she  escaped  from  his 
conjugal  arms  and  smoothed  her  cap. 

Peace  thus  restored,  Mr.  Morton  refilled  his  pipe,  and  the 
good  lady,  after  a  pause,  resumed,  in  a  very  mild,  conciliatory 
tone,  — 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  Eoger,  that  vexes  me  with  that 
there  child.     He  is  so  deceitful,  and  he  does  tell  such  fibs !  " 

"Pibs!  that  is  a  very  bad  fault,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  gravely. 
"  That  must  be  corrected." 

"  It  was  but  the  other  day  that  I  saw  him  break  a  pane  of 


126  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

glass  in  the  shop;  and  when  I  taxed  him  with  it,  he  denied  it, 
—  and  with  such  a  face!     I  can't  abide  story-telling," 

"Let  me  know  the  next  story  he  tells;  I  '11  cure  him,"  said 
Mr.  Morton,  sternly.  "You  know  how  I  broke  Tom  of  it. 
Spare  the  rod,  and  spoil  the  child.  And  when  I  promised  to 
be  kind  to  the  boy,  of  course  I  did  not  mean  that  I  was  not 
to  take  care  of  his  morals,  and  see  that  he  grew  up  an  honest 
man.     Tell  truth  and  shame  the  devil,  — that 's  my  motto." 

"Spoke  like  yourself,  Eoger!  "  said  Mrs.  Morton,  with  great 
animation.  "But  you  see  he  has  not  had  the  advantage  of 
such  a  father  as  you.  I  wonder  your  sister  don't  write  to  you. 
Some  people  make  a  great  fuss  about  their  feelings;  but  out  of 
sight  out  of  mind." 

"I  hope  she  is  not  ill.  Poor  Catherine!  she  looked  in  a 
very  bad  way  when  she  was  here, "  said  Mr.  j\Iorton ;  and  he 
turned  uneasily  to  the  fireplace  and  sighed. 

Here  the  servant  entered  with  the  supper-tray,  and  the 
conversation  fell  upon  other  topics. 

Mrs.  Eoger  Morton's  charge  against  Sidney  was,  alas!  too 
true.  He  had  acquired  under  that  roof  a  terrible  habit  of 
telling  stories.  He  had  never  incurred  that  vice  with  his 
mother,  because  then  and  there  he  had  nothing  to  fear;  now, 
he  had  everything  to  fear, —the  grim  aunt,  even  the  quiet, 
kind,  cold,  austere  uncle,  the  apprentices,  the  strange  ser- 
vants, and,  oh!  more  than  all,  those  hard-eyed,  loud-laughing 
tormentors,  the  boys  of  his  own  age !  Naturally  timid,  sever- 
ity made  him  actually  a  coward;  and  when  the  nerves  tremble. 
a  lie  sounds  as  surely  as,  when  I  vibrate  that  wire,  the  bell  at 
the  end  of  it  will  ring.  Beware  of  the  man  who  has  been 
roughly  treated  as  a  child. 

The  day  after  the  conference  just  narrated,  Mr.  Morton,  who 
was  subject  to  erysipelas,  had  taken  a  little  cooling  medicine. 
He  breakfasted,  therefore,  later  than  usual,  after  the  rest  of 
the  family;  and  at  this  meal— i?otir  lid  soulager  —  \\e  ordered 
the  luxury  of  a  muf&n.  Now  it  so  chanced  that  he  had  only 
finished  half  the  muffin,  and  drunk  one  cup  of  tea,  when  he 
was  called  into  the  shop  by  a  customer  of  great  importance, 
a  prosy  old  lady,  who  always  gave  her  orders  with  remark- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  127 

able  precision,  and  wlio  valued  herself  on  a  character  for  affa- 
bility, which  she  maintained  by  never  buying  a  penny  ribbon 
without  asking  the  shopman  how  all  his  family  were,  and 
talking  news  about  every  other  family  in  the  place.  At  the 
time  Mr.  Morton  left  the  parlour,  Sidney  and  Master  Tom 
were  therein,  seated  on  two  stools,  and  casting  up  division 
sums  on  their  respective  slates, — a  point  of  education  to 
which  Mr.  Morton  attended  with  great  care.  As  soon  as  his 
father's  back  was  turned.  Master  Tom's  eyes  wandered  from 
the  slate  to  the  muffin,  as  it  leered  at  him  from  the  slop-basin. 
Never  did  Pythian  sibyl,  seated  above  the  bubbling  spring, 
utter  more  oracular  eloquence  to  her  priest,  than  did  that 
muffin  —  at  least  the  parts  of  it  yet  extant  —  utter  to  the  fas- 
cinated senses  of  Master  Tom.  First  he  sighed;  then  he 
moved  round  on  his  stool ;  then  he  got  up ;  then  he  peered  at 
the  muffin  from  a  respectful  distance ;  then  he  gradually  ap- 
proached, and  walked  round,  and  round,  and  round  it,  his 
eyes  getting  bigger  and  bigger ;  then  he  peeped  through  the 
glass-door  into  the  shop,  and  saw  his  father  busily  engaged 
with  the  old  lady ;  then  he  began  to  calculate  and  philosophize, 
—  perhaps  his  father  had  done  breakfast ;  perhaps  he  would 
not  come  back  at  all;  if  he  came  back,  he  would  not  miss 
one  corner  of  the  muffin ;  and  if  he  did  miss  it,  why  should 
Tom  be  supposed  to  have  taken  it?  As  he  thus  communed 
with  himself,  he  drew  nearer  into  the  fatal  vortex,  and 
at  last,  with  a  desperate  plunge,  he  seized  the  triangular 
temptation,  — 

"  And  ere  a  man  had  power  to  say  'Behold ! ' 
The  jaws  of  Thomas  had  devoured  it  up." 

Sidney,  disturbed  from  his  studies  by  the  agitation  of  his 
companion,  witnessed  this  proceeding  with  great  and  con- 
scientious alarm.  "  0  Tom !  "  said  he,  "  what  will  your  papa 
say?  " 

"Look  at  that!  "  said  Tom,  putting  his  fist  under  Sidney's 
reluctant  nose.  "  If  Father  misses  it,  you  '11  say  the  cat  took 
it.     If  you  don't  —  my  eye,  what  a  wapping  I  '11  give  you!  " 

Here  Mr.  Morton's  voice  was  heard  wishing  the  lady  "  Good 


128  NIGHT  AND    MORNING. 

morning ! "  and  Master  Tom,  thinking  it  better  to  leave  the 
credit  of  the  invention  solely  to  Sidney,  whispered,  "  Say  I  'ni 
gone  upstairs  for  my  pockethanker, "  and  hastily  absconded. 

Mr.  Morton,  already  in  a  very  bad  humour,  partly  at  the 
effects  of  the  cooling  medicine,  partly  at  the  suspension  of  his 
breakfast,  stalked  into  the  parlour.  His  tea,  the  second  cup 
already  poured  out,  was  cold.  He  turned  towards  the  muffin, 
and  missed  the  lost  piece  at  a  glance. 

"Who  has  been  at  my  muffin?"  said  he,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  Sidney  like  the  voice  he  had  always  supposed  an 
ogre  to  possess.     "Have  you.  Master  Sidney?" 

"  N — n — no,  sir ;  indeed,  sir !  " 

"  Then  Tom  has.     Where  is  he?  " 

"Gone  upstairs  for  his  handkerchief,  sir." 

"Did  he  take  my  muffin?     Sj)eak  the  truth!  " 

"  No,  sir ;  it  was  the  —  it  was  the  —  the  cat,  sir !  " 

"0  you  wicked,  wicked  boy!  "  cried  Mrs.  Morton,  who  had 
followed  her  husband  into  the  parlour ;  "  the  cat  kittened  last 
night,  and  is  locked  up  in  the  coal-cellar !  " 

"  Come  here.  Master  Sidney !  No !  first  go  down,  Margaret, 
and  see  if  the  cat  is  in  the  cellar :  it  might  have  got  out,  Mrs. 
M.,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  just  even  in  his  wrath. 

Mrs,  Morton  went,  and  there  was  a  dead  silence,  except 
indeed  in  Sidney's  heart,  which  beat  louder  than  a  clock  ticks. 
Mr.  Morton,  meanwhile,  went  to  a  little  cupboard.  While 
still  there,  Mrs.  Morton  returned.  The  cat  ivas  in  the  cellar, 
the  key  turned  on  her,  in  no  mood  to  eat  muffins,  poor  thing ! 
She  would  not  even  lap  her  milk !  Like  her  mistress,  she  had 
had  a  very  bad  time ! 

"Now  come  here,  sir!  "  said  Mr.  Morton,  withdrawing  him- 
self from  the  cupboard,  with  a  small  horsewhip  in  his  hand, 
"  I  will  teach  you  how  to  speak  the  truth  in  future !  Confess 
that  you  have  told  a  lie ! " 

"Yes,  sir,  it  was  a  lie!  Pray,  pray  forgive  me;  but  Tom 
made  me ! " 

"What!  when  poor  Tom  is  upstairs?  Worse  and  worse !  " 
said  Mrs.  Morton,  lifting  up  her  hands  and  eyes.  "What  a 
viper!  " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  129 

"For  shame,  boy,  for  shame!  Take  that,  and  that,  and 
that  —  " 

Writhing,  shrinking,  still  more  terrified  than  hurt,  the  poor 
child  cowered  beneath  the  lash. 

"Mamma!  Mamma!"  he  cried  at  last,  "oh,  why,  why  did 
you  leave  me?" 

At  these  words  Mr.  Morton  stayed  his  hand ;  the  whip  fell 
to  the  ground. 

"Yet  it  is  all  for  the  boy's  good,"  he  muttered.  "There, 
child,  I  hope  this  is  the  last  time.  There,  you  are  not  much 
hurt.     Zounds,  don't  cry  so!" 

"He  will  alarm  the  whole  street,"  said  Mrs.  Morton;  "I 
never  see  such  a  child!  Here,  take  this  parcel  to  Mrs. 
Birnie's  —  you  know  the  house,  only  next  street,  and  dry 
your  eyes  before  you  get  there.  Don't  go  through  the  shop; 
this  way  out." 

She  pushed  the  child,  still  sobbing  with  a  vehemence  that 
she  could  not  comprehend,  through  the  private  passage  into 
the  street,  and  returned  to  her  husband. 

"  You  are  convinced  now,  Mr.  M.  ?  " 

"Pshaw!  ma'am;  don't  talk.  But,  to  be  sure,  that 'show 
I  cured  Tom  of  fibbing.     The  tea 's  as  cold  as  a  stone!  " 


y 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Le  bien  nous  le  faisons ;   le  raal  c'est  la  Fortune. 

On  a  toujours  raison,  le  Destin  toujours  tort.^  —  La  Fontaine. 

Upon  the  early  morning  of  the  day  commemorated  by  the 
historical  events  of  our  last  chapter,  two  men  were  deposited 
by  a  branch  coach  at  the  inn  of  a  hamlet  about  ten  miles 
distant  from  the  town  in  which  Mr.  Roger  Morton  resided. 

1  "  The  Good,  we  effect  ourselves  ;  the  Evil  is  the  handiwork  of  Fortune. 
Mortals  are  always  in  the  right,  Destiny  always  in  the  wrong." 
9 


130  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Though  the  hamlet  was  small,  the  inn  was  large,  for  it  was 
placed  close  by  a  huge  finger-post  that  pointed  to  three  great 
roads.  One  led  to  the  town  before  mentioned;  another  to  the 
heart  of  a  manufacturing  district;  and  a  third  to  a  populous 
seaport.  The  weather  was  fine,  and  the  two  travellers  ordered 
breakfast  to  be  taken  into  an  arbour  in  the  garden,  as  well  as 
the  basins  and  towels  necessary  for  ablution.  The  elder  of 
the  travellers  appeared  to  be  unequivocally  foreign;  you  would 
have  guessed  him  at  once  for  a  German,  He  wore,  what  was 
then  very  uncommon  in  this  country,  a  loose,  brown-linen 
blouse,  buttoned  to  the  chin,  with  a  leathern  belt,  into  which 
were  stuck  a  German  meerschaum  and  a  tobacco-pouch.  He 
had  very  long  flaxen  hair,  false  or  real,  that  streamed  half- 
way down  his  back,  large  light  mustaches,  and  a  rough,  sun- 
burnt complexion,  which  made  the  fairness  of  the  hair  more 
remarkable.  He  wore  an  enormous  pair  of  green  spectacles, 
and  complained  much  in  broken  English  of  the  weakness  of  his 
eyes.  All  about  him,  even  to  the  smallest  minutiae,  indicated 
the  German,  —  not  only  the  large  muscular  frame,  the  broad 
feet,  and  vast  though  well-shaped  hands,  but  the  brooch  — 
evidently  purchased  of  a  Jew  in  some  great  fair  —  stuck 
ostentatiously  and  superfluously  into  his  stock;  the  quaint, 
droll-looking  carpet-bag,  which  he  refused  to  trust  to  the 
Boots ;  and  the  great,  massive,  dingy  ring  which  he  wore  on 
his  forefinger.  The  other  was  a  slender,  remarkably  upright, 
and  sinewy  youth,  in  a  blue  frock,  over  which  v\^as  thrown  a 
large  cloak,  a  travelling  cap,  with  a  shade  that  concealed  all 
of  the  upper  part  of  his  face,  except  a  dark  quick  eye  of 
uncommon  fire,  and  a  shawl  handkerchief,  which  was  equally 
useful  in  concealing  the  lower  part  of  the  countenance.  On 
descending  from  the  coach,  the  German  with  some  difficulty 
made  the  hostler  understand  that  he  wanted  a  post-chaise  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour;  and  then,  without  entering  the  house,  he 
and  his  friend  strolled  to  the  arbour.  While  th«  maid-servant 
was  covering  the  table  with  bread,  butter,  tea,  eggs,  and  a 
huge  round  of  beef,  the  German  was  busy  in  washing  his 
hands,  and  talking  in  his  national  tongue  to  the  young  man, 
who  returned  no  answer ;  but  as  soon  as  the  servant  had  com- 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  131 

pletecl  lier  operations  the  foreigner  turned  round,  and  observ- 
ing her  eyes  fixed  on  his  broocli  with  much  female  admiration, 
he  made  one  stride  to  her. 

"  Der  Teufel !  my  goot  Mddchen  —  but  you  are  von  var  — 
pretty  — vat  you  call  it?"  and  he  gave  her,  as  he  spoke,  so 
hearty  a  smack  that  the  girl  was  more  flustered  than  flattered 
by  the  courtesy. 

"  Keep  yourself  to  yourself,  sir ! "  said  she,  very  tartly,  — 
for  chambermaids  never  like  to  be  kissed  by  a  middle-aged 
gentleman  when  a  younger  one  is  by.  Whereupon  the  Ger- 
man replied  by  a  pinch  —  it  is  immaterial  to  state  the  exact 
Spot  to  which  that  delicate  caress  was  directed.  But  this 
last  offence  was  so  inexpiable  that  the  "madchen"  bounced 
off  with  a  face  of  scarlet,  and  a  "  Sir,  you  are  no  gentleman ; 
that 's  what  you  ar'  n't !  "  The  German  thrust  his  head  out 
of  the  arbour,  and  followed  her  with  a  loud  laugh;  then, 
drawing  himself  in  again,  he  said  in  quite  another  accent, 
and  in  excellent  English,  "There,  Master  Philip,  we  have 
got  rid  of  the  girl  for  the  rest  of  the  morning,  and  that 's 
exactly  what  I  wanted  to  do ;  women's  wits  are  confoundedly 
sharp.  Well,  did  I  not  tell  you  right,  we  have  baffled  all  the 
bloodhounds ! " 

"And  here,  then,  Gawtrey,  we  are  to  part,"  said  Philip, 
mournfully. 

"  I  wish  you  would  think  better  of  it,  my  boy, "  returned 
Mr.  Gawtrey,  breaking  an  &^^ ;  "  how  can  you  shift  for  your- 
self, —  no  kith  nor  kin,  not  even  that  important  machine  for 
giving  advice  called  a  friend,  —  no,  not  a  friend,  when  I  am 
gone?  I  foresee  how  it  must  end.  (D —  it,  salt  butter,  by 
Jove!)" 

"  If  I  were  alone  in  the  world,  as  I  have  told  you  again 
and  again,  perhaps  I  might  pin  my  fate  to  yours.  But  my 
brother!" 

"There  it  is,  always  wrong  when  we  act  from  our  feelings. 
My  whole  life,  which  some  day  or  other  I  will  tell  you,  proves 
that.  Your  brother!  bah!  is  he  not  very  well  off  with  his 
own  uncle  and  aunt?  —  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  I  dare  say. 
Come,  man,  you  must  be  as  hungry  as  a  hawk ;  a  slice  of  the 


132  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

beef?  Let  well  alone,  and  shift  for  yourself.  What  good 
can  you  do  your  brother?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  must  see  him;  I  have  sworn  it." 

"Well,  go  and  see  hizu,  and  then  strike  across  the  country 
to  me.     I  will  wait  a  day  for  you,  —  there  now !  " 

"But  tell  me  first,"  said  Philip,  very  earnestly,  and  fixing 
his  dark  eyes  on  his  companion,  —  "  tell  me,  —  yes,  I  must 
speak  frankly,  —  tell  me,  you  who  would  link  my  fortunes 
with  your  own,  — tell  me,  what  and  who  are  you?" 

Gawtrey  looked  up. 

"What  do  you  suppose?"  said  he,  dryly. 

"I  fear  to  suppose  anything,  lest  I  wrong  you;  but  the 
strange  place  to  which  you  took  me  the  evening  on  which  you 
saved  me  from  pursuit,  the  persons  I  met  there  —  " 

"Well-dressed,  and  very  civil  to  you?" 

"True!  but  with  a  certain  wild  looseness  in  their  talk 
that  —  But  /  have  no  right  to  judge  others  by  mere  appear- 
ance; nor  is  it  this  that  has  made  me  anxious,  and,  if  j^ou 
will,  suspicious." 

"What  then?" 

"Your  dress,  your  disguise." 

"Disguised  yourself!  ha!  ha!  Behold  the  world's  charity! 
You  fly  from  some  danger,  some  pursuit,  disguised,  you,  who 
hold  yourself  guiltless ;  I  do  the  same,  and  you  hold  me  crim- 
inal, —  a  robber,  perhaps,  a  murderer  it  may  be !  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  am:  I  am  a  son  of  Fortune,  an  adventurer;  I  live 
by  my  wits.  So  do  poets  and  lawyers,  and  all  the  charlatans 
of  the  world ;  I  am  a  charlatan,  a  chameleon.  '  Each  man  in 
his  time  plays  many  parts ; '  I  play  any  part  in  which  Money, 
the  Arch-Manager,  promises  me  a  livelihood.  Are  you 
satisfied?" 

"Perhaps,"  answered  the  boy,  sadly,  "when  I  know  more 
of  the  world,  I  shall  understand  you  better.  Strange,  strange, 
that  you,  out  of  all  men,  should  have  been  kind  to  me  in 
distress ! " 

"Not  at  all  strange.  Ask  the  beggar  whom  he  gets  the 
most  pence  from,  —  the  fine  lady  in  her  carriage,  the  beau 
smelling  of  eau  de  Cologne?    Pish!   the  people  nearest  to 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  133 

being  beggars  themselves  keep  the  beggar  alive.  You  were 
friendless,  and  the  man  who  has  all  earth  for  a  foe  befriends 
you.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,  sir,  the  way  of  the  world. 
Come,  eat  while  you  can;  this  time  next  year  you  may  have 
no  beef  to  your  bread." 

Thus  masticating  and  moralizing  at  the  same  time,  Mr. 
Gawtrey  at  last  finished  a  breakfast  that  would  have  aston- 
ished the  whole  Corporation  of  London;  and  then  taking  out 
a  large  old  watch,  with  an  enamelled  back,  —  doubtless  more 
German  than  its  master,  —  he  said,  as  he  lifted  up  his  carpet- 
bag, "  I  must  be  off.  Tempus  fugit,  and  I  must  arrive  just  in 
time  to  nick  the  vessels ;  shall  get  to  Ostend,  or  Rotterdam, 
safe  and  snug;  thence  to  Paris.  How  my  pretty  Fan  will 
have  grown!  Ah,  you  don't  know  Fan, — make  you  a  nice 
little  wife  one  of  these  days!  Cheer  up,  man,  we  shall  meet 
again.  Be  sure  of  it;  and  hark  ye,  that  strange  place,  as  you 
call  it,  where  I  took  you,  —you  can  find  it  again? " 

"Not  I." 

"Here,  then,  is  the  address.  Whenever  you  want  me,  go 
there,  ask  to  see  Mr.  Gregg,  —  old  fellow  with  one  eye,  you 
recollect,  —  shake  him  by  the  hand  just  so ;  you  catch  the 
trick,  practise  it  again.  No,  the  forefinger  thus ;  that 's  right. 
Say  '  blater,'  no  more,  — '  blater; '  stay,  I  will  write  it  down 
for  you;  and  then  ask  for  William  Gawtrey 's  direction.  He 
will  give  it  you  at  once,  without  questions,  these  signs  under- 
stood ;  and  if  you  want  money  for  your  passage,  he  will  give 
you  that  also,  with  advice  into  the  bargain.  Always  a  warm 
welcome  with  me.  And  so  take  care  of  yourself,  and  good-by. 
I  see  my  chaise  is  at  the  door." 

As  he  spoke,  Gawtrey  shook  the  young  man's  hand  with 
cordial  vigour,  and  strode  off  to  his  chaise,  muttering,  "  Money 
well  laid  out;  fee  money;  I  shall  have  him,  and.  Gad,  I  like 
him,  —  poor  devil  I  " 


134  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

He  is  a  cunning  coachman  that  can  turn  well  in  a  narrow  room. 

Old  Play :  from  Lamb's  Specimens. 

Here  are  two  pilgrims, 

And  neither  knows  one  footstep  of  the  way. 

Heywood  :  Duchess  of  Suff'olk.    Ibid, 

The  chaise  had  scarce  driven  from  the  inn-door  when  a 
coach  stopped  to  change  horses  on  its  last  stage  to  the  town 
to  which  Philip  was  bound.  The  name  of  the  destination,  in 
gilt  letters  on  the  coach-door,  caught  his  eye,  as  he  walked 
from  the  arbour  towards  the  road,  and  in  a  few  moments  he 
was  seated  as  the  fourth  passenger  in  the  "  Nelson  Slow  and 
Sure."  Prom  under  the  shade  of  his  cap  he  darted  that  quick, 
quiet  glance,  which  a  man  who  hunts,  or  is  hunted  —  in  other 
words,  who  observes,  or  shuns  —  soon  acquires.  At  his  left 
hand  sat  a  young  woman  in  a  cloak  lined  with  yellow ;  she 
had  taken  off  her  bonnet  and  pinned  it  to  the  roof  of  the  coach, 
and  looked  fresh  and  pretty  in  a  silk  handkerchief,  which  she 
had  tied  round  her  head,  probably  to  serve  as  a  nightcap  dur- 
ing the  drowsy  length  of  the  journey.  Opposite  to  her  was  a 
middle-aged  man  of  pale  complexion,  and  a  grave,  pensive, 
studious  expression  of  face;  and  vis-a-vis  to  Philip  sat  an 
overdressed,  showy,  very  good-looking  man  of  about  two  or 
three  and  forty.  This  gentleman  wore  auburn  whiskers, 
which  met  at  the  chin;  a  foraging  cap,  with  a  gold  tassel; 
a  velvet  waistcoat,  across  which,  in  various  folds,  hung  a 
golden  chain,  at  the  end  of  which  dangled  an  eye-glass,  that 
from  time  to  time  he  screwed,  as  it  were,  into  his  right  eye; 
he  wore  also  a  blue  silk  stock,  with  a  frill  much  crumpled, 
dirty  kid  gloves,  and  over  his  lap  lay  a  cloak  lined  with  red 
silk.  As  Philip  glanced  towards  this  personage,  the  latter 
fixed  his  glass  also  at  him,  with  a  scrutinizing  stare,  which 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  135 

drew  fire  from  Philip's  dark  eyes.  The  man  dropped  his 
glass,  and  said  in  a  half  provincial,  half  haw-haw  tone,  like 
the  stage  exquisite  of  a  minor  theatre,  "  Pawdon  me,  and  split 
legs!"  therewith  stretching  himself  between  Philip's  limbs 
in  the  approved  fashion  of  inside  passengers.  A  young  man 
in  a  white  great-coat  now  came  to  the  door  with  a  glass  of 
warm  sherry  and  water. 

"  You  must  take  this,  you  must  now ;  it  will  keep  the  cold 
out,"  —  the  day  was  broiling,  — said  he  to  the  young  woman. 

"Gracious  me!"  was  the  answer,  "but  I  never  drink  wine 
of  a  morning,  James ;  it  will  get  into  my  head. " 

"To  oblige  me!"  said  the  young  man,  sentimentally; 
whereupon  the  young  lady  took  the  glass,  and  looking  very 
kindly  at  her  Ganymede,  said,  "Your  health!"  and  sipped, 
and  made  a  wry  face ;  then  she  looked  at  the  passengers,  tit- 
tered, and  said,  "I  can't  bear  wine!  "  and  so,  very  slowly  and 
daintily,  sipped  up  the  rest.  A  silent  and  expressive  squeeze 
of  the  hand  on  returning  the  glass  rewarded  the  young  man, 
and  proved  the  salutary  effect  of  his  prescription. 

"All  right!  "  cried  the  coachman;  the  hostler  twitched  the 
cloths  from  the  leaders,  and  away  went  the  "  Nelson  Slow  and 
Sure,"  with  as  much  pretension  as  if  it  had  meant  to  do  the 
ten  miles  in  an  hour.  The  pale  gentleman  took  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket  a  little  box  containing  gum-arabic,  and  hav- 
ing inserted  a  couple  of  morsels  between  his  lips,  he  next 
drew  forth  a  little  thin  volume,  which  from  the  manner  the 
lines  were  printed  was  evidently  devoted  to  poetry. 

The  smart  gentleman,  who  since  the  episode  of  the  sherry 
and  water  had  kept  his  glass  fixed  upon  the  young  lady,  now 
said,  with  a  genteel  smirk,  "That  young  gentleman  seems 
very  auttentive,  miss !  " 

"He  is  a  very  good  young  man,  sir,  and  takes  great  care 
of  me." 

"Not  your  brother,  miss,  eh?" 

"La,  sir!  why  not?" 

"No  faumily  likeness;  noice-looking  fellow  enough!  But 
your  oiyes  and  mouth,  ah,  miss !  " 

Miss  turned  away  her  head,  and  uttered  with  pert  vivacity, 


136  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"I  never  likes  compliments,  sir!     But  the  young  man  is  not 
my  brother." 

"A  sweetheart,  eh?  Oh  fie,  miss!  Haw!  haw!"  and  the 
auburn-whiskered  Adonis  poked  Philip  in  the  knee  with  one 
hand,  and  the  pale  gentleman  in  the  ribs  with  the  other.  The 
latter  looked  up,  and  reproachfully;  the  former  drew  in  his 
legs,  and  uttered  an  angry  ejaculation. 

"Well,  sir,  there  is  no  harm  in  a  sweetheart,  is  there?" 
"None  in  the  least,  ma'am;  I  advoise  you  to  double  the 
dose.     We  often  hear  of  two  strings  to  a  bow.     Daun't  you 
think  it  would  be  noicer  to  have  two  beaux  to  your  string?" 

As  he  thus  wittily  expressed  himself,  the  gentleman  took 
off  his  cap,  and  thrust  his  fingers  through  a  very  curling  and 
comely  head  of  hair;  the  young  lady  looked  at  him  with 
evident  coquetry,  and  said,  "How  you  do  run  on,  you 
gentlemen ! " 

"I  may  well  run  on,  miss,  as  long  as  I  run  aufter  you,"  was 
the  gallant  reply. 

Here  the  pale  gentleman,  evidently  annoyed  by  being  talked 
across,  shut  his  book  up,  and  looked  round.  His  eye  rested 
on  Philip,  who,  whether  from  the  heat  of  the  day  or  from  the 
f orgetfulness  of  thought,  had  pushed  his  cap  from  his  brows ; 
and  the  gentleman,  after  staring  at  him  for  a  few  moments 
with  great  earnestness,  sighed  so  heavily  that  it  attracted  the 
notice  of  all  the  passengers. 

"Are  you  unwell,  sir?"  asked  the  young  lady,  compas- 
sionately. 

"A  little  pain  in  my  side,  nothing  more!  " 
"Chaunge  places  with  me,  sir,"  cried  the  Lothario,  offi- 
ciously. "Now  do!"  The  pale  gentleman,  after  a  short 
hesitation  and  a  bashful  excuse,  accepted  the  proposal.  In  a 
few  moments  the  young  lady  and  the  beau  were  in  deep  and 
whispered  conversation,  their  heads  turned  towards  the  win- 
dow. The  pale  gentleman  continued  to  gaze  at  Philip,  till 
the  latter,  perceiving  the  notice  he  excited,  coloured,  and 
replaced  his  cap  over  his  face. 

"Are  you  going  to  N ?"   asked  the  gentleman,  in  a 

gentle,  timid  voice. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  137 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  the  first  time  you  have  ever  been  there?" 

"Sir! "  returned  Philip,  in  a  voice  that  spoke  surprise  and 
distaste  at  his  neighbour's  curiosity. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  the  gentleman,  shrinking  back;  "but 
you  remind  me  of  —  of  —  a  family  I  once  knew  in  the  town. 
Bo  you  know  —  the  —  the  Mortons?  " 

One  in  Philip's  situation,  with,  as  he  supposed,  the  officers 
of  justice  in  his  track  (for  Gawtrey,  for  reasons  of  his  own, 
rather  encouraged  than  allayed  his  fears),  might  well  be  sus- 
picious. He  replied  therefore,  shortly,  "  I  am  quite  a  stranger 
to  the  town,"  and  ensconced  himself  in  the  corner,  as  if  to 
take  a  nap.  Alas !  that  answer  was  one  of  the  many  obsta- 
cles he  was  doomed  to  build  up  between  himself  and  a 
fairer  fate. 

The  gentleman  sighed  again,  and  never  spoke  more  to  the 
end  of  the  journey.  When  the  coach  halted  at  the  inn,  —  the 
same  inn  which  had  before  given  its  shelter  to  poor  Cathe- 
rine, —  the  young  man  in  the  white  coat  opened  the  door,  and 
offered  his  arm  to  the  young  lady. 

"Do  you  make  any  stay  here,  sir?"  said  she  to  the  beau,  as 
she  unpinned  her  bonnet  from  the  roof. 

"Perhaps  so;  I  am  waiting  for  my  phe-a-ton,  which  my 
f aellow  is  to  bring  down,  —  tanking  a  little  tour. " 

"We  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  the  young 
lady,  on  whom  the  phe-a-ton  completed  the  effect  produced 
by  the  gentleman's  previous  gallantries;  and  with  that  she 
dropped  into  his  hand  a  very  neat  card,  on  which  was  printed, 
"Wavers  and  Snow,  Staymakers,  High  Street." 

The  beau  put  the  card  gracefully  into  his  pocket,  leaped 
from  the  coach,  nudged  aside  his  rival  of  the  white  coat,  and 
offered  his  arm  to  the  lady,  who  leaned  on  it  affectionately  as 
she  descended. 

"This  gentleman  has  been  so  perlite  to  me,  James,"  said 
she.  James  touched  his  hat;  the  beau  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "Ah!  you  are  not  a  hauppy  man,  are  you?  Oh, 
no,  not  at  all  a  hauppy  man!  Good  day  to  you!  Guard,  that 
hat-box  is  mine ! " 


138  NIGHT   AXD  MORXIXG. 

"While  Philip  was  paying  the  coachman,  the  beau  passed 
and  whispered  him,  — 

"  Recollect  old  Gregg,  anything  on  the  lay  here,  don't  spoil 
my  sport  if  we  meet!  "  and  bustled  off  into  the  inn,  whistling 
"God  save  the  king!  " 

Philip  started,  then  tried  to  bring  to  mind  the  faces  which 
he  had  seen  at  the  "strange  place,"  and  thought  he  recalled 
the  features  of  his  fellow-traveller.  However,  he  did  not 
seek  to  renew  the  acquaintance,  but  inquired  the  way  to  Mr. 
Morton's  house,  and  thither  he  now  proceeded. 

He  was  directed,  as  a  short  cut,  down  one  of  those  narrow 
passages  at  the  entrance  of  which  posts  are  placed  as  an  indi- 
cation that  they  are  appropriated  solely  to  foot-passengers. 
A  dead  white  wall,  which  screened  the  garden  of  the  physi- 
cian of  the  place,  ran  on  one  side ;  a  high  fence  to  a  nursery- 
ground  was  on  the  other ;  the  passage  was  lonely,  for  it  was 
now  the  hour  when  few  persons  walk  either  for  business  or 
pleasure  in  a  provincial  town,  and  no  sound  was  heard  save 
the  fall  of  his  own  step  on  the  broad  flag-stones.  At  the  end 
of  the  passage  in  the  main  street  to  which  it  led,  he  saw 
already  the  large,  smart,  showy  shop,  with  the  hot  sun  shin- 
ing full  on  the  gilt  letters  that  conveyed  to  the  eyes  of  the 
customer  the  respectable  name  of  "Morton,"  when  suddenly 
the  silence  was  broken  by  choked  and  painful  sobs.  He 
turned,  and  beneath  a  compo  portico,  jutting  from  the  wall, 
which  adorned  the  physician's  door,  he  saw  a  child  seated  on 
the  stone  steps  weeping  bitterly.  A  thrill  shot  through 
Philip's  heart.  Did  he  recognize,  disguised  as  it  was  by 
pain  and  sorrow,  that  voice?  He  paused,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  child's  shoulder.  "Oh,  don't,  don't,  pray  don't;  I 
am  going,  I  am  indeed ! "  cried  the  child,  quailing,  and  still 
keeping  his  hands  clasped  before  his  face. 

"  Sidney !  "  said  Philip.  The  boy  started  to  his  feet,  uttered 
a  cry  of  rapturous  joy,  and  fell  upon  his  brother's  breast. 

"Oh,  Philip!  dear,  dear  Philip!  you  are  come  to  take  me 
away  back  to  my  own,  own  mamma;  I  will  be  so  good,  I 
will  never  tease  her  again,  —  never,  never !  I  have  been  so 
wretched ! " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  139 

"Sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  they  have  done  to  you,"  said 
Philip,  checking  the  rising  heart  that  heaved  at  his  mother's 
name. 

So,  there  they  sat,  on  the  cold  stone  under  the  stranger's 
porch,  these  two  orphans,  — Philip's  arms  round  his  brother's 
waist,  Sidney  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  and  imparting  to  him 
—  perhaps  with  pardonable  exaggeration  —  all  the  sufferings 
he  had  gone  through;  and  when  he  came  to  that  morning's 
chastisement,  and  showed  the  wale  across  the  little  hands 
which  he  had  vainly  held  up  in  supplication,  Philip's  passion 
shook  him  from  limb  to  limb.  His  impulse  was  to  march 
straight  into  Mr.  Morton's  shop  and  gripe  him  by  the  throat; 
and  the  indignation  he  betrayed  encouraged  Sidney  to  colour 
yet  more  highly  the  tale  of  his  wrongs  and  pain. 

When  he  had  done,  and  clinging  tightly  to  his  brother's 
broad  chest,  said,  "But  never  mind,  Philip;  now  we  will  go 
home  to  Mamma,"  —  » 

Philip  replied,  "  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  brother.  We  can- 
not go  back  to  our  mother.  I  will  tell  you  why,  later.  We 
are  alone  in  the  world,  we  two !  If  you  will  come  with  me, 
God  help  you !  —  for  you  will  have  many  hardships ;  we  shall 
have  to  work  and  drudge,  and  you  may  be  cold  and  hungry, 
and  tired,  very  often,  Sidney, — very,  very  often!  But  you 
know  that,  long  ago,  when  I  was  so  passionate,  I  never  was 
wilfully  unkind  to  you;  and  I  declare  now  that  I  would  bite 
out  my  tongue  rather  than  it  should  say  a  harsh  word  to  you. 
That  is  all  I  can  promise.  Think  well.  Will  you  never  miss 
all  the  comforts  you  have  now?" 

"Comforts!"  repeated  Sidney,  ruefully,  and  looking  at  the 
wale  over  his  hands.  "  Oh !  let  —  let  —  let  me  go  with  you ;  I 
shall  die  if  I  stay  here.     I  shall  indeed,  indeed !  " 

"  Hush !  "  said  Philip ;  for  at  that  moment  a  step  was  heard, 
and  the  pale  gentleman  walked  slowly  down  the  passage,  and 
started  and  turned  his  head  wistfully  as  he  looked  at  the  boys. 

When  he  was  gone,  Philip  rose. 

"It  is  settled,  then,"  said  he,  firmly.  "Gome  with  me  at 
once.  You  shall  return  to  their  roof  no  more.  Come,  quick; 
we  shall  have  many  miles  to  go  to-night." 


140  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

He  comes, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings  ;  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn  ; 
And  having  dropped  the  expected  bag,  pass  on,  — 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

CowPEK :  Description  of  the  Postman. 

The  pale  gentleman  entered  Mr.  Morton's  shop;  and  look- 
ing round  him,  spied  the  worthy  trader  showing  shawls  to  a 
young  lady  just  married.  He  seated  himself  on  a  stool,  and 
said  to  the  bowing  foreman,  — 

"I  will  wait  till  Mr.  Morton  is  disengaged." 

The  young  lady  having  closely  examined  seven  shawls,  and 
declared  they  were  beautiful,  said  she  would  think  of  it,  and 
walked  away.     Mr.  Morton  now  approached  the  stranger. 

"Mr.  Morton,"  said  the  iDale  gentleman,  "you  are  very 
little  altered.     You  do  not  recollect  me?  " 

"Bless  me,  Mr.  Spencer!  is  it  really  you?  Well,  what  a 
time  since  we  met !  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  And  what 
brings  you  to  N ,  — business?" 

"Yes,  business.     Let  us  go  within." 

Mr.  Morton  led  the  way  to  the  parlour,  where  Master  Tom, 
re-perched  on  the  stool,  was  rapidly  digesting  the  plundered 
muffin.  Mr.  Morton  dismissed  him  to  play,  and  the  pale  gen- 
tleman took  a  chair. 

"Mr.  Morton,"  said  he,  glancing  over  his  dress,  "you  see  I 
am  in  mourning.  It  is  for  your  sister.  I  never  got  the  better 
of  that  early  attachment,  — never." 

"My  sister!  Good  heavens!"  said  Mr.  Morton,  turning 
very  pale;  "is  she  dead?  Poor  Catherine!  and  I  not  know 
of  it!     When  did  she  die?  " 

"Not  many  days  since;  and  — and  — "  said  Mr.  Spencer, 
greatly  affected,  "  I  fear  in  want.  I  had  been  abroad  for  some 
months ;  on  my  return  last  week,  looking  over  the  newspapers 


NIGHT  AND    MORNING.  141 

(for  I  always  order  them  to  be  filed),  I  read  the  short  account 
of  her  lawsuit  against  Mr.  Beaufort,  some  time  back.  I  re- 
solved to  find  her  out.  I  did  so  through  the  solicitor  she 
employed.  It  was  too  late;  I  arrived  at  her  lodgings  two 
days  after  her  —  her  burial.  I  then  determined  to  visit  poor 
Catherine's  brother,  and  learn  if  anything  could  be  done  for 
the  children  she  had  left  behind." 

"  She  left  but  two.     Philip,  the  elder,  is  very  comfortably 

placed  at  E ;  the  younger  has  his  home  with  me;  and 

Mrs.  Morton  is  a  moth  —  that  is  to  say,  she  takes  great  pains 
with  him.     Ehem!     And  my  poor,  poor  sister!  " 

"Is  he  like  his  mother?" 

"Very  much,  when  she  was  young;  poor  dear  Catherine!  " 

"What  age  is  he?" 

"About  ten,  perhaps;  I  don't  know  exactly;  much  younger 
than  the  other.     And  so  she  's  dead!  " 

"  Mr.  Morton,  I  am  an  old  bachelor  "  (here  a  sickly  smile 
crossed  Mr.  Spencer's  face);  "a  small  portion  of  my  fortune 
is  settled,  it  is  true,  on  my  relations ;  but  the  rest  is  mine, 
and  I  live  within  my  income.  The  elder  of  these  boys  is 
probably  old  enough  to  begin  to  take  care  of  himself.  But, 
the  younger  —  perhaps  you  have  a  family  of  your  own,  and 
can  spare  him?" 

Mr,  Morton  hesitated,  and  twitched  up  his  trousers. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "this  is  very  kind  in  you.  I  don't  know; 
we'll  see.  The  boy  is  out  now;  come  and  dine  with  us  at 
two, —pot-luck.  Well,  so  she  is  no  more!  Heigho!  Mean- 
while, I  '11  talk  it  over  with  Mrs.  M." 

"I  will  be  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  rising. 

"Ah,"  sighed  Mr.  Morton,  ''if  Catherine  had  but  married 
you  she  would  have  been  a  happy  woman !  " 

"I  would  have  tried  to  make  her  so,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  as 
he  turned  away  his  face  and  took  his  departure. 

Two  o'clock  came;  but  no  Sidney.  They  had  sent  to  the 
place  whither  he  had  been  despatched;  he  had  never  arrived 
there.  Mr.  Morton  grew  alarmed;  and  when  Mr.  Spencer 
came  to  dinner,  his  host  was  gone  in  search  of  the  truant. 
He  did  not  return  till  three.     Doomed  that  day  to  be  belated 


142  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

both  at  breakfast  and  dinner,  this  decided  him  to  part  with 
Sidney  whenever  he  should  be  found.  Mrs.  Morton  was  per- 
suaded that  the  child  only  sulked,  and  would  come  back  fast 
enough  when  he  was  hungry.  Mr.  Spencer  tried  to  believe 
her,  and  ate  his  mutton,  which  was  burnt  to  a  cinder;  but 
when  five,  six,  seven  o'clock  came,  and  the  boy  was  still  miss- 
ing, even  Mrs.  Morton  agreed  that  it  was  high  time  to  insti- 
tute a  regular  search.  The  whole  family  set  off  different  ways. 
It  was  ten  o'clock  before  they  were  reunited;  and  then  all  the 
news  picked  up  was  that  a  boy  answering  Sidney's  description 
had  been  seen  with  a  young  man  in  three  several  parts  of  the 
town ;  the  last  time  at  the  outskirts,  on  the  high  road  towards 
the  manufacturing  districts.  These  tidings  so  far  relieved 
Mr.  Morton's  mind  that  he  dismissed  the  chilling  fear  that 
had  crept  there,  — that  Sidney  might  have  drowned  himself. 
Boys  ^vill  drown  themselves  sometimes!  The  description  of 
the  young  man  coincided  so  remarkably  with  the  fellow- 
passenger  of  Mr.  Spencer,  that  he  did  not  doubt  it  was  the 
same;  the  more  so  when  he  recollected  having  seen  him  with 
a  fair-haired  child  under  the  portico;  and,  yet  more,  when  he 
recalled  the  likeness  to  Catherine  that  had  struck  him  in  the 
coach,  and  caused  the  inquiry  that  had  roused  Philip's  suspi- 
cion. The  mystery  was  thus  made  clear,  —  Sidney  had  fled 
with  his  brother.  Nothing  more,  however,  could  be  done  that 
night.  The  next  morning,  active  measures  should  be  devised ; 
and  when  the  morning  came,  the  mail  brought  to  Mr.  Morton 
the  two  following  letters.    The  first  was  from  Arthur  Beaufort. 

Sir,  —  I  have  been  prevented  by  severe  illne?s  from  writing  to  you 
before.  I  can  now  scarcely  hold  a  pen;  but  the  instant  my  health  is 
recovered  I  shall  be  with  you  at  N . 

On  her  deathbed,  the  mother  of  the  boy  under  your  charge,  Sidney 
Morton,  committed  him  solemnly  to  me.  I  make  his  fortunes  my  care, 
and  shall  hasten  to  claim  him  at  your  kindly  hands.  But  the  elder  son  — 
this  poor  Philip,  who  has  suffered  so  unjustly,  —  for  our  lawver  has  seen 
Mr.  Plaskwith,  and  heard  the  whole  story  —  what  has  become  of  him  ? 
All  our  inquiries  have  failed  to  track  him.  Alas!  I  was  too  ill  to  insti- 
tute them  myself  while  it  was  yet  time.  Perhaps  he  may  have  sought 
shelter  with  you,  his  uncle ;  if  so,  assure  him  that  he  is  in  no  danger  from 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  143 

the  pursuit  of  the  law,  that  his  innocence  is  fully  recognized,  and  that 
my  father  and  myself  implore  him  to  accept  our  affection.     I  can  write 
no  more  now ,  hut  in  a  few  days  1  shall  hope  to  see  you. 
1  am,  sir,  etc., 

Arthur  Beaufort, 
Berkeley  Square. 

The  second  letter  was  from  Mr.  Plaskwitli,  and  ran  thus :  — 

Dear  Morton,  —  Something  very  awkward  has  happened,  —  not  my 
fault,  and  very  uni)leasant  fur  me.  Your  relation,  Philip,  as  1  wrote  you 
word,  was  a  painstaking  lad,  though  odd  and  had  mannered,  —  for  want, 
perhaps,  poor  hoy !  of  heing  taught  better,  and  Mrs.  P.  is,  you  know,  a 
very  genteel  woman,  —  women  go  too  much  by  manners,  —  so  she  never 
took  much  to  him.  However,  to  the  point,  as  the  French  emperor  used 
to  say :  one  evening  he  asked  me  for  money  for  his  mother,  who,  he  said, 
was  ill,  in  a  very  insolent  way,  —  I  may  say  threatening.  It  was  in  my 
own  shop,  and  before  Plimmins  and  Mrs.  P.  I  was  forced  to  answer 
with  dignified  rebuke,  and  left  the  shop.  When  T  returned,  he  was  gone, 
and  some  shillings  — fourteen,  I  think,  and  three  sovereigns  —  evidently 
from  the  till,  scattered  on  the  floor.  Mrs.  P.  and  Mr.  Plimmins  were 
very  much  frightened,  thought  it  was  clear  I  was  robbed,  and  that  we 
were  to  be  murdered.  Plimmins  slept  below  that  night,  and  we  borrowed 
butcher  Johnson's  dog.  Nothing  happened.  I  did  not  think  I  was 
robbed;  because  the  money,  when  we  came  to  calculate,  was  all  right. 
I  know  human  nature :  he  had  thought  to  take  it,  but  repented,  —  quite 
clear.  However,  I  was  naturally  very  angry,  thought  he  'd  come  back 
again,  meant  to  reprove  him  properly,  waited  several  days,  heard  noth- 
ing of  him,  grew  uneasy,  would  not  attend  longer  to  Mrs.  P. ;  for,  as 
Napoleon  Buonaparte  observed,  "  Women  are  well  in  their  way,  not  in 
ours."  Made  Plimmins  go  with  me  to  town  Hired  a  Bow  street  runner 
to  track  him  out,  cost  me  £l.  Is.  and  two  glasses  of  brandy  and  water. 
Poor  Mrs.  Morton  was  just  buried.  Quite  shocked  1  Suddenly  saw  the 
boy  in  the  streets.  Plimmins  rushed  forward  in  the  kindest  way,  was 
knocked  down,  hurt  his  arm,  paid  2s.  6d.  for  lotion.  Philip  ran  off,  we 
ran  after  him  ;  could  not  find  him  ;  forced  to  return  home.  Ne.xt  day, 
a  lawyer  from  a  Mr.  Beaufort  —  Mr.  George  Blackwell,  a  gentlemanhke 
man— called.  Mr.  Beaufort  will  do  anything  for  him  in  reason.  Is 
there  anything  more  /  can  do?  I  really  am  very  uneasy  about  the  lad, 
and  Mrs.  P  and  I  have  a  tif!  about  it  r  but  that 's  nothing ;  thought  I 
had  best  write  to  you  for  instructions. 
Yours  truly, 

C.  Plaskwith. 


144  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

P.S.  Just  open  my  letter  to  say,  Bow  Street  officer  just  been  here, 
has  found  out  that  the  boy  has  been  seen  with  a  very  suspicious  char- 
acter. They  think  he  has  left  London.  Bow  street  officer  wants  to  go 
after  him,  very  expensive :    so  now  you  can  decide. 

Mr.  Spencer  scarcely  listened  to  Mr.  Plaskwith's  letter,  but 
of  Arthur's  he  felt  jealous.  He  would  fain  have  been  the  only 
protector  to  Catherine's  children ;  but  he  was  the  last  man  fitted 
to  head  the  search  now  so  necessary  to  prosecute  with  equal 
tact  and  energy . 

A  soft-hearted,  soft-headed  man,  a  confirmed  valetudina- 
rian, a  day-dreamer,  who  had  wasted  away  his  life  in  daw- 
dling and  maundering  over  Simple  Poetry,  and  sighing  over 
his  unhappy  attachment;  no  child,  no  babe,  was  more  thor- 
oughly helpless  than  Mr.  Spencer. 

The  task  of  investigation  devolved,  therefore,  on  Mr. 
INIorton,  and  he  went  about  it  in  a  regular,  plain,  straight- 
forward way.  Hand-bills  were  circulated,  constables  em- 
ployed, and  a  lawyer,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Spencer,  despatched 
to  the  manufacturing  districts  towards  which  the  orphans  had 
been  seen  to  direct  their  path. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Give  the  gentle  South 
Yet  leave  to  court  those  sails. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher     Beggar'' s  Bush. 

Cut  your  cloth,  sir, 

According  to  your  calling.  —  Ibid. 

Meanwhile  the  brothers  were  far  away,  and  He  who  feeds 
the  young  ravens  made  their  paths  pleasant  to  their  feet. 
Philip  had  broken  to  Sidney  the  sad  news  of  their  mother's 
death,  and  Sidney  had  wept  with  bitter  passion.  But  chil- 
dren —  what  can  theij  know  of  death?    Their  tears  over  graves 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  145 

dry  sooner  than  the  dews.  It  is  melancholy  to  compare  the 
depth,  the  endurance,  the  far-sighted,  anxious,  prayerful  love 
of  a  parent  with  the  inconsiderate,  frail,  and  evanescent  affec- 
tion of  the  infant,  whose  eyes  thp  hues  of  the  butterfly  yet 
dazzle  with  delight.  It  was  the  night  of  their  flight,  and  in 
the  open  air,  when  Philip  (his  arms  round  Sidney's  waist) 
told  his  brother-orphan  that  they  were  motherless.  And  the 
air  -was  balmy,  the  skies  filled  with  the  effulgent  presence  of 
the  August  moon;  the  cornfields  stretched  round  them  wide 
and  far,  and  not  a  leaf  trembled  on  the  beech-tree  beneath 
which  they  had  sought  shelter.  It  seemed  as  if  Nature  her- 
self smiled  pityingly  on  their  young  sorrow,  and  said  to  them, 
"Grieve  not  for  the  dead;  I,  who  live  forever,  /  will  be  your 
mother !  " 

They  crept,  as  the  night  deepened,  into  the  warmer  sleep- 
ing-place afforded  by  stacks  of  hay,  mown  that  summer  and 
still  fragrant;  and  the  next  morning  the  birds  woke  them 
betimes,  to  feel  that  Liberty,  at  least,  was  with  them,  and 
to  wander  with  her  at  will. 

Who  in  his  boyhood  has  not  felt  the  delight  of  freedom  and 
adventure,  —  to  have  the  world  of  woods  and  sward  before 
him;  to  escape  restriction;  to  lean,  for  the  first  time,  on  his 
own  resources;  to  rejoice  in  the  wild  but  manly  luxury  of 
independence;  to  act  the  Crusoe,  and  to  fancy  a  Friday  in 
every  footprint,  an  island  of  his  own  in  every  field?  Yes,  in 
spite  of  their  desolation,  their  loss,  of  the  melancholy  past, 
of  the  friendless  future,  the  orphans  were  happy,  —  happy  in 
their  youth,  their  freedom,  their  love,  their  wanderings  in 
the  delicious  air  of  the  glorious  August.  Sometimes  they 
came  upon  knots  of  reapers  lingering  in  the  shade  of  the 
hedgerows  over  their  noonday  meal;  and,  grown  sociable  by 
travel  and  bold  by  safety,  they  joined  and  partook  of  the  rude 
fare  with  the  zest  of  fatigue  and  youth.  Sometimes,  too,  at 
night,  they  saw  gleam  afar  and  red  by  the  wood-side  the  fires 
of  gypsy  tents.  But  these,  with  the  superstition  derived 
from  old  nursery-tales,  they  scrupulously  shunned,  eying 
them  with  a  mysterious  awe!  What  heavenly  twilights 
belong  to  that  golden  month!  —  the  air  so  lucidly  serene,  as 
10 


146  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

the  purple  of  the  clouds  fades  gradually  away,  and  up  soars, 
broad,  round,  intense,  and  luminous,  the  full  moon  which 
belongs  to  the  joyous  season!  The  6elds  then  are  greener 
than  in  the  heats  of  July  and  June,  —  they  have  got  back  the 
luxury  of  a  second  spring;  and  still,  beside  the  paths  of  the 
travellers,  lingered  on  the  hedges  the  clustering  honeysuckle, 
the  convolvulus  glittered  in  the  tangles  of  the  brake,  the 
hardy  heath-flower  smiled  on  the  green  waste. 

And  ever,  at  evening,  they  came,  field  after  field,  upon 
those  circles  which  recall  to  children  so  many  charmed 
legends,  and  are  fresh  and  frequent  in  that  month,  — the 
Fairy  Rings!  They  thought,  poor  boys!  that  it  was  a  good 
omen,  and  half  fancied  that  the  Fairies  protected  them,  as  in 
the  old  time  they  had  often  protected  the  desolate  and  outcast. 

They  avoided  the  main  roads,  and  all  towns,  with  suspi- 
cious care;  but  sometimes  they  paused,  for  food  and  rest,  at 
the  obscure  hostel  of  some  scattered  hamlet,  though  more 
often  they  loved  to  spread  the  simple  food  they  purchased  by 
the  way  under  some  thick  tree,  or  beside  a  stream  through 
whose  limpid  waters  they  could  watch  the  trout  glide  and 
play;  and  they  often  preferred  the  chance  shelter  of  a  hay- 
stack or  a  shed  to  the  less  romantic  repose  offered  by  the 
small  inns  they  alone  dared  to  enter.  They  went  in  this 
much  by  the  face  and  voice  of  the  host  or  hostess.  Once 
only  Philip  had  entered  a  town,  on  the  second  day  of  their 
flight,  and  that  solely  for  the  purchase  of  ruder  clothes,  and 
a  change  of  linen  for  Sidney,  with  some  articles  and  imple- 
ments of  use  necessary  in  their  present  course  of  shift  and 
welcome  hardship.  A  wise  precaution;  for,  thus  clad,  they 
escaped  suspicion. 

So  journeying,  they  consumed  several  days;  and  having 
taken  a  direction  quite  opposite  to  that  which  led  to  the  man- 
ufacturing districts,  whither  pursuit  had  been  directed,  they 
were  now  in  the  centre  of  another  county,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  one  of  the  most  considerable  towns  of  England;  and 
here  Philip  began  to  think  their  wanderings  ought  to  cease, 
and  it  was  time  to  settle  on  some  definite  course  of  life.  He 
had  carefully  hoarded  about  his  person,  and  most  thriftily 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  147 

managed,  the  little  fortune  bequeathed  by  his  mother.  But 
Philip  looked  on  this  capital  as  a  deposit  sacred  to  Sidney; 
it  was  not  to  be  spent,  but  kept  and  augmented,  —  the  nucleus 
for  future  wealth.  Within  the  last  few  weeks  his  character 
was  greatly  ripened,  and  his  powers  of  thought  enlarged.  He 
was  no  more  a  boy,  — he  was  a  man;  he  had  another  life  to 
take  care  of.  He  resolved,  then,  to  enter  the  town  they  were 
approaching,  and  to  seek  for  some  situation  by  which  he  might 
maintain  both.  Sidney  was  very  loath  to  abandon  their  pres- 
ent roving  life;  but  he  allowed  that  the  warm  weather  could 
not  always  last,  and  that  in  winter  the  fields  would  be  less 
pleasant.  He,  therefore,  with  a  sigh,  yielded  to  his  brother's 
reasonings. 

They  entered  the  fair  and  busy  town  of  one  day  at 

noon;  and,  after  finding  a  small  lodging,  at  which  he  depos- 
ited Sidney,  who  was  fatigued  with  their  day's  walk,  Philip 
sallied  forth  alone. 

After  his  long  rambling,  Philip  was  pleased  and  struck 
with  the  broad  bustling  streets,  the  gay  shops, — the  evi- 
dences of  opulence  and  trade.  He  thought  it  hard  if  he  could 
not  find  there  a  market  for  the  health  and  heJirt  of  sixteen. 
He  strolled  slowly  and  alone  along  the  streets,  till  his  atten- 
tion was  caught  by  a  small  corner  ^hop,  in  the  window  of 
which  was  placed  a  board,  bearing  this  inscription :  — 

OFFICE  FOR  ExMPLOYMENT.  -  RECIPROCAL  ADVANTAGE. 

Mr.  John  Chimp's  bureau  open  every  day,  from  ten  till  four.  Clerks, 
servants,  labourers,  etc.,  provided  with  suitable  situations.  Terms  mod- 
ate.     N.B.  —  The  oldest  established  office  in  the  town. 

Wanted,  a  good  cook.     An  undergardener. 

What  he  sought  was  here!  Philip  entered,  and  saw  a 
short,  fat  man  with  spectacles,  seated  before  a  desk,  poring 
upon  the  well-filled  leaves  of  a  long  register. 

"Sir,"  said  Philip,  "I  wish  for  a  situation.  I  don't  care 
what." 

"  Half-a-crown  for  entry,  if  you  please.  That 's  right.  Now 
for  particulars.     Hum!  you  don't  look  like  a  servant!  " 


148  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"No;  I  wish  for  any  place  where  my  education  can  be  of 
use.  I  can  read  and  write;  I  know  Latin  and  French;  I  can 
draw;  I  know  arithmetic  and  summing." 

"  Very  well ;  very  genteel  young  man,  prepossessing  appear- 
ance (that's  a  fudge!),  highly  educated;  usher  in  a  school, 
eh?" 

"What  you  like." 

"References?" 

"I  have  none." 

"Eh!  none?"  and  Mr.  Clump  fixed  his  spectacles  full  upon 
Philip. 

Philip  was  prepared  for  the  question,  and  had  the  sense  to 
perceive  that  a  frank  reply  was  his  best  policy.  "The  fact 
is,"  said  he,  boldly,  "I  was  well  brought  up;  my  father  died; 
I  was  to  be  bound  apprentice  to  a  trade  I  disliked;  I  left  it, 
and  have  now  no  friends." 

"  If  I  can  help  you,  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Clump,  coldly.  "  Can't 
promise  much.  If  you  were  a  labourer,  character  might  not 
matter;  but  educated  young  men  must  have  a  character. 
Hands  always  more  useful  than  head.  Education  no  avail 
nowadays;  cotimon,  quite  common.     Call  again  on  Monday." 

SomcAvhat  disappointed  and  chilled,  Philip  turned  from  the 
bureau ;  but  he  had  a  strjjng  confidence  in  his  own  resources, 
and  recovered  his  spirits  as  he  mingled  with  the  throng.  He 
passed,  at  length,  by  a  livery-stable,  and  paused,  from  old 
associations,  as  he  saw  a  groom  in  the  mews  attempting  to 
manage  a  young,  hot  horse,  evidently  unbroken.  The  master 
of  the  stables,  in  a  green  short  jacket  and  top-boots,  with  a 
long  whip  in  his  hand,  was  standing  by,  with  one  or  two  men 
who  looked  like  horse-dealers. 

"Come  off,  clumsy!  you  can't  manage  that  'ere  fine  hani- 
mal,"  cried  the  liveryman.  "Ah!  he  's  a  lamb,  sir,  if  he  were 
backed  properly ;  but  I  has  not  a  man  in  the  yard  as  can  ride 
since  Will  died.     Come  off,  I  say,  lubber! " 

But  to  come  off,  without  being  thrown  off,  was  more  easily 
said  than  done.  The  horse  was  now  plunging  as  if  Juno  had 
sent  her  gadfly  to  him;  and  Philip,  interested  and  excited, 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  till  he  stood  by  the  side  of  the  horse- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  149 

dealers.  The  other  hostlers  ran  to  the  help  of  their  comrade, 
who  at  last,  with  white  lips  and  shaking  knees,  found  himself 
on  terra  firma ;  while  the  horse,  snorting  hard,  and  rubbing 
his  head  against  the  breast  and  arms  of  the  hostler,  who  held 
him  tightly  by  the  rein,  seemed  to  ask,  in  his  own  way,  "  Are 
there  any  more  of  you?" 

A  suspicion  that  the  horse  was  an  old  acquaintance  crossed 
Philip's  mind;  he  went  up  to  him,  and  a  white  spot  over  the 
left  eye  confirmed  his  doubts.  It  had  been  a  foal  reserved 
and  reared  for  his  own  riding!  one  that,  in  his  prosperous 
daj's,  had  eaten  bread  from  his  hand,  and  followed  him  round 
the  paddock  like  a  dog;  one  that  he  had  mounted  in  sport, 
without  saddle,  when  his  father's  back  was  turned;  a  friend, 
in  short,  of  the  happy  lan(/  syne, — nay,  the  very  friend  to 
whom  he  had  boasted  his  affection,  when,  standing  with 
Arthur  Beaufort  under  the  summer  sky,  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  him  full  of  friends.  He  put  his  hand  on  the 
horse's  neck,  and  whispered,  "Soho!  So,  Billy!"  and  the 
horse  turned  sharp  round  with  a  quick  joyous  neigh. 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Philip,  appealing  to  the  livery- 
man, "  I  will  undertake  to  ride  this  horse,  and  take  him  over 
yon  leaping-bar.     Just  let  me  try  him." 

"There  's  a  fine-spirited  lad  for  you!  "  said  the  liveryman, 
much  pleased  at  the  offer.  "  Now,  gentlemen,  did  I  not  tell 
you  that  'ere  hanimal  had  no  vice  if  he  was  properly 
managed?  " 

The  horse-dealers  shook  their  heads. 

"May  I  give  him  some  bread  first?"  asked  Philip;  and  the 
hostler  was  despatched  to  the  house.  Meanwhile  the  animal 
evinced  various  signs  of  pleasure  and  recognition,  as  Philip 
stroked  and  talked  to  him ;  and,  finally,  when  he  ate  the  bread 
from  the  young  man's  hand,  the  whole  yard  seemed  in  as 
much  delight  and  surprise  as  if  they  had  witnessed  one  of 
M.  Van  Amburgh's  exploits. 

And  now,  Philip,  still  caressing  the  horse,  slowly  and 
cautiously  mounted;  the  animal  made  one  bound  half-across 
the  yard,  —  a  bound  which  sent  all  the  horse-dealers  into  a 
corner,  —  and  then  went  through  his  paces,  one   after  the 


150  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

other,  with  as  much  ease  and  calm  as  if  he  had  been  broken 
in  at  Mr.  Fozard's  to  carry  a  young  lady.  And  when  he 
crowned  all  by  going  thrice  over  the  leaping-bar,  and  Philip, 
dismounting,  threw  the  reins  to  the  hostler,  and  turned 
triumphantly  to  the  horse-dealer,  that  gentleman  slapped 
him  on  the  back,  and  said  emphatically,  "Sir,  you  are  a 
man!  and  I  am  proud  to  see  you  here." 

]\Ieanwhile  the  horse-dealers  gathered  round  the  animal; 
looked  at  his  hoofs,  felt  his  legs,  examined  his  windpipe,  and 
concluded  the  bargain,  which,  but  for  Philip,  would  have  been 
very  abruptly  broken  off.  When  the  horse  was  led  out  of  the 
yard,  the  liveryman,  Mr.  Stubmore,  turned  to  Philip,  who, 
leaning  against  the  wall,  followed  the  poor  animal  with 
mournful  eyes. 

"My  good  sir,  you  have  sold  that  horse  for  me,  that  you 
have!  Anything  as  I  can  do  for  you?  One  good  turn  de- 
serves another.     Here 's  a  brace  of  shiners." 

"Thank  you,  sir!  I  want  no  money,  but  I  do  want  some 
employment.  I  can  be  of  use  to  you,  perhaps,  in  your  estab- 
lishment.    I  have  been  brought  up  among  horses  all  my  life." 

"Saw  it,  sir!  that's  very  clear.  1  say,  that  'ere  horse 
knows  you!"  and  the  dealer  put  his  finger  to  his  nose. 
"Quite  right  to  be  mum!  He  was  bred  by  an  old  customer 
of  mine,  —  famous  rider !  —  Mr.  Beaufort.  Aha !  that 's  where 
you  knew  him,  I  s'pose.     Were  you  in  his  stables?" 

"Hem,  I  knew  Mr.  Beaufort  well." 

"Did  you?  You  could  not  know  a  better  man.  Well,  I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  engage  you,  though  you  seem  by  your 
hands  to  be  a  bit  of  a  gentleman,  eh?  Never  mind;  don't 
want  you  to  groom,  but  superintend  things.  D'ye  know 
accounts,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

"Character?" 

Philip  repeated  to  Mr.  Stubmore  the  story  he  had  imparted 
to  Mr.  Clump.  Somehow  or  other,  men  who  live  much  with 
horses  are  always  more  lax  in  their  notions  than  the  rest  of 
mankind.  Mr.  Stubmore  did  not  seem  to  grow  more  distant 
at  Philip's  narration. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  151 

"Understand  you  perfectly,  my  man.  Brought  up  with 
them  'ere  fine  creturs,  how  could  you  nail  your  nose  to  a 
desk?  I  '11  take  you  without  more  palaver.  What 's  your 
name?" 

"Philips." 

"  Come  to-morrow,  and  we  '11  settle  about  wages.  Sleep 
here?" 

"No.  I  have  a  brother  whom  I  must  lodge  with,  and  for 
whose  sake  I  wish  to  work.  I  should  not  like  him  to  be  at 
the  stables,  he  is  too  young.  But  I  can  come  early  every  day, 
and  go  home  late." 

"Well,  just  as  you  like,  man.     Good  day." 

And  thus,  not  from  any  mental  accomplishment,  not  from 
the  result  of  his  intellectual  education,  but  from  the  mere 
physical  capacity  and  brute  habit  of  sticking  fast  on  his  sad- 
dle, did  Philip  Morton,  in  this  great,  intelligent,  gifted,  civil- 
ized, enlightened  community  of  Great  Britain,  find  the  means 
of  earning  his  bread  without  stealing  it. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Don  Salluste  {sourtant).     Je  parie 

Que  vous  ne  peusiez  pas  a  moi  1  —  Ruy  Bias. 

Don  Salluste.  Cousin  ! 

Don  Cesar.    De  vos  bienfaits  je  n'aurai  nulle  envie, 

Tant  que  je  trouverai  vivant  ma  libre  vie.^  —  Ibid. 

Philip's  situation  was  agreeable  to  his  habits.  His  great 
courage  and  skill  in  horsemanship  were  not  the  only  qualifica- 
tions useful  to  Mr.  Stubmore;  his  education  answered  a  useful 

1  "Don  Sallust  (smiling).    I  '11  lay  a  wager  you  won't  think  of  me  ?  " 

"DonSallust.     Cousin! 
Don  Ccvsar     I  covet  not  your  favors,  so  but  I  lead  au  independent  life." 


152  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

purpose  in  accounts,  and  his  manners  and  appearance  were 
highly  to  the  credit  of  the  yard.  The  customers  and  loungers 
soon  grew  to  like  Gentleman  Philips,  as  he  was  styled  in  the 
establishment.  Mr.  Stubmore  conceived  a  real  affection  for 
him.  So  passed  several  weeks;  and  Philip,  in  this  humble 
capacity,  might  have  worked  out  his  destinies  in  peace  and 
comfort,  but  for  a  new  cause  of  vexation  that  arose  in  Sidney. 
This  boy  was  all  in  all  to  his  brother.  For  him  he  had 
resisted  the  hearty  and  joyous  invitations  of  Gawtrey  (whose 
gay  manner  and  high  spirits  had,  it  must  be  owned,  capti- 
vated his  fancy,  despite  the  equivocal  mystery  of  the  man's 
avocations  and  condition) ;  for  him  he  now  worked  and  toiled, 
cheerful  and  contented;  and  him  he  sought  to  save  from  all 
to  which  he  subjected  himself.  He  could  not  bear  that  that 
soft  and  delicate  child  should  ever  be  exposed  to  the  low  and 
menial  associations  that  now  made  up  his  own  life,  —  to  the 
obscene  slang  of  grooms  and  hostlers,  to  their  coarse  manners 
and  rough  contact.  He  kept  him,  therefore,  apart  and  aloof 
in  their  little  lodging,  and  hoped  in  time  to  lay  by,  so  that 
Sidney  might  ultimately  be  restored,  if  not  to  his  bright  ori- 
ginal sphere,  at  least  to  a  higher  grade  than  that  to  which 
Philip  was  himself  condemned.  But  poor  Sidney  could  not 
bear  to  be  thus  left  alone,  to  lose  sight  of  his  brother  from 
daybreak  till  bed-time,  to  have  no  one  to  amuse  him;  he 
fretted  and  pined  away.  All  the  little  inconsiderate  selfish- 
ness, uneradicated  from  his  breast  by  his  sufferings,  broke  out 
the  more,  the  more  he  felt  that  he  was  the  first  object  on  earth 
to  Philip.  Philip,  thinking  he  might  be  more  cheerful  at  a 
day-school,  tried  the  experiment  of  placing  him  at  one  where 
the  boys  were  much  of  his  own  age;  but  Sidney,  on  the  third 
day,  came  back  with  a  black  eye,  and  he  would  return  no 
more.  Philip  several  times  thought  of  changing  their  lodg- 
ing for  one  where  there  were  young  people;  but  Sidney  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  the  kind  old  widow  who  was  their  landlady, 
and  cried  at  the  thought  of  removal.  Unfortunately,  the  old 
woman  was  deaf  and  rheumatic ;  and  though  she  bore  teasing 
ad  libitum  she  could  not  entertain  the  child  long  on  a  stretch. 
Too  young  to  be  reasonable,  Sidney  could  not,  or  would  not, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  153 

comprehend  why  his  brother  was  so  long  away  from  him ;  and 
once  he  said,  peevishly,  — 

''  If  I  had  thought  I  was  to  be  moped  up  so,  I  would  not 
have  left  Mrs.  Morton.  Tom  was  a  bad  boy,  but  still  it  was 
somebody  to  play  with.  I  wish  I  had  not  gone  away  with 
you!" 

This  speech  cut  Philip  to  the  heart.  What,  then,  he  had 
taken  from  the  child  a  respectable  and  safe  shelter,  —  the  sure 
provision  of  a  life, — and  the  child  now  reproached  him! 
When  this  was  said  to  him,  the  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes. 

"God  forgive  me,  Sidney,"  said  he,  and  turned  away. 

But  then  Sidney,  who  had  the  most  endearing  ways  with 
him,  seeing  his  brother  so  vexed,  ran  up  and  kissed  him,  and 
scolded  himself  for  being  naughty.  Still  the  words  were 
spoken,  and  their  meaning  rankled  deep.  Philip  himself,  too, 
was  morbid  in  his  excessive  tenderness  for  this  boy.  There 
is  a  certain  age,  before  the  love  for  the  other  sex  commences, 
when  the  feeling  of  friendship  is  almost  a  passion.  You  see 
it  constantly  in  girls  and  boys  at  school.  It  is  the  first  vague 
craving  of  the  heart  after  the  master  food  of  human  life, — 
Love.  It  has  its  jealousies  and  humours  and  caprices  like 
love  itself.  Philip  was  painfully  acute  to  Sidney's  affection, 
was  jealous  of  every  particle  of  it.  He  dreaded  lest  his 
brother  should  ever  be  torn  from  him. 

He  would  start  from  his  sleep  at  night,  and  go  to  Sidney's 
bed  to  see  that  he  was  there.  He  left  him  in  the  morning 
with  forebodings,  he  returned  in  the  dark  with  fear.  Mean- 
while the  character  of  this  young  man,  so  sweet  and  tender  to 
Sidney,  was  gradually  becoming  more  hard  and  stern  to  others. 
He  had  now  climbed  to  the  post  of  command  in  that  rude 
establishment;  and  premature  command  in  any  sphere  tends 
to  make  men  unsocial  and  imperious. 

One  day  Mr.  Stubmore  called  him  into  his  own  counting- 
house,  where  stood  a  gentleman,  with  one  hand  in  his  coat- 
pocket,  the  other  tapping  his  whip  against  his  boot. 

"  Philips,  show  this  gentleman  the  brown  mare.  She  is  a 
beauty  in  harness,  is  she  not?  This  gentleman  wants  a 
match  for  his  pheaton." 


154  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"She  must  step  very  hoigh,"  said  the  gentleman,  turning 
round:  and  Philip  recognized  the  beau  in  the  stage-coach. 

The  recognition  was  simultaneous.  The  beau  nodded,  then 
whistled,  and  winked. 

"Come,  my  man,  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  he. 

Philip,  with  many  misgivings,  followed  him  across  the 
yard.     The  gentleman  then  beckoned  him  to  approach. 

"You,  sir,  — moind  I  never  peach,  — setting  up  here  in  the 
honest  line?     Dull  work,  honesty,  eh?" 

"Sir,  I  really  don't  know  you." 

"Daun't  you  recollect  old  Greggs,  the  evening  you  came 
there  with  jolly  Bill  Gawtrey?     Eecollect  that,  eh?" 

Philip  was  mute. 

"  I  was  among  the  gentlemen  in  the  back  parlour  who  shook 
you  by  the  hand.  Bill 's  off  to  France,  then.  I  am  tauking 
the  provinces.  I  want  a  good  horse,  the  best  in  the  yard, 
moind !  Cutting  such  a  swell  here !  My  name  is  Captain  de 
Burgh  Smith;  never  moind  yours,  my  fine  faellow.  Now 
then,  out  with  your  rattlers  and  keep  your  tongue  in  your 
mouth." 

Philip  mechanically  ordered  out  the  brown  mare,  which 
Captain  Smith  did  not  seem  much  to  approve  of;  and  after 
glancing  round  the  stables  with  great  disdain  of  the  collec- 
tion, he  sauntered  out  of  the  yard  without  saying  more  to 
Philip,  though  he  stopped  and  spoke  a  few  sentences  to  Mr. 
Stubmore.  Philip  hoped  he  had  no  design  of  purchasing, 
and  that  he  was  rid,  for  the  present,  of  so  awkward  a  cus- 
tomer.     Mr.  Stubmore  approached  Philip. 

"Drive  over  the  grays  to  Sir  John,"  said  he.  "My  lady 
wants  a  pair  to  job.  A  very  pleasant  man,  that  Captain 
Smith.  I  did  not  know  you  had  been  in  a  yard  before,  says 
you  were  the  pet  at  Elmore's  in  London,  Served  him  many 
a  day.     Pleasant,  gentlemanlike  man!  " 

"Y — e — s!  "  said  Philip,  hardly  knowing  what  he  said,  and 
hurrying  back  into  the  stables  to  order  out  the  grays. 

The  place  to  which  he  was  bound  was  some  miles  distant, 
and  it  was  sunset  when  he  returned.  As  he  drove  into  the 
main  street,  two  men  observed  him  closely. 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  155 

"That  is  he!     I  am  almost  sure  it  is,"  said  one. 

"Oh,  then  it 's  all  smooth  sailing,"  replied  the  other. 

"But,  bless  my  eyes!  you  must  be  mistaken!  See  whom 
he  's  talking  to  now !  " 

At  that  moment  Captain  de  Burgh  Smith,  mounted  on  the 
brown  mare,  stopped  Philip. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  've  bought  her,  —  hope  she  '11  turn  out 
well.  What  do  you  really  think  she  's  worth?  Not  to  buy, 
but  to  sell?" 

"Sixty  guineas." 

"  Well,  that 's  a  good  day's  work;  and  I  owe  it  to  you.  The 
old  faellow  would  not  have  trusted  me  if  you  had  not  served 
me  at  Elmore's,  ha,  ha!  If  he  gets  scent  and  looks  shy  at 
you,  my  lad,  come  to  me.  I  'm  at  the  Star  Hotel  for  the  next 
few  days.  I  want  a  tight  faellow  like  you,  and  you  shall 
have  a  fair  percentage.  I  'm  none  of  your  stingy  ones.  I 
say,  I  hope  this  devil  is  quiet?  She  cocks  up  her  ears 
dawmnably ! " 

"Look  you,  sir!"  said  Philip,  very  gravely,  and  rising  up 
in  his  break;  "I  know  very  little  of  you,  and  that  little  is  not 
much  to  your  credit.  I  give  you  fair  warning  that  I  shall 
caution  my  employer  against  you." 

"Will  you,  my  fine  faellow?     Then  take  care  of  yourself." 

"  Stay,  and  if  you  dare  utter  a  word  against  me,"  said  Philip, 
with  that  frown  to  which  his  swarthy  complexion  and  flashing 
eyes  gave  an  expression  of  fierce  power  beyond  his  years, 
"  you  will  find  that,  as  I  am  the  last  to  care  for  a  threat,  so  I 
am  the  first  to  resent  an  injury! " 

Thus  saying,  he  drove  on.  Captain  Smith  affected  a  cough, 
and  put  his  brown  mare  into  a  canter.  The  two  men  followed 
Philip  as  he  drove  into  the  yard. 

"What  do  you  know  against  the  person  he  spoke  to?"  said 
one  of  them. 

"Merely  that  he  is  one  of  the  cunningest  swells  on  this  side 
the  Bay,"  returned  the  other.  "It  looks  bad  for  your  young 
friend." 

The  first  speaker  shook  his  head  and  made  no  reply. 

On  gaining  the  yard,  Philip  found  that  Mr.  Stubmore  had 


156  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

gone  out,  and  was  not  expected  home  till  the  next  day.  He 
had  some  relations  who  were  farmers,  whom  he  often  visited; 
to  them  he  was  probably  gone. 

Philip,  therefore,  deferring  his  intended  caution  against 
the  gay  captain  till  the  morrow,  and  musing  how  the  caution 
might  be  most  discreetly  given,  walked  homeward.  He  had 
just  entered  the  lane  that  led  to  his  lodgings,  when  he  saw  the 
two  men  I  have  spoken  of  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  The 
taller  and  better-dressed  of  the  two  left  his  comrade,  and 
crossing  over  to  Philip,  bowed,  and  thus  accosted  him,  — 

"Fine  evening,  Mr.  Philip  Morton.  I  am  rejoiced  to  see 
you  at  last.  You  remember  me,  —  Mr.  Blackwell,  Lincoln's 
Inn." 

"What  is  your  business?"  said  Philip,  halting,  and  speak- 
ing short  and  fiercely. 

"Now  don't  be  in  a  passion,  my  dear  sir,  — now  don't.  I 
am  here  on  behalf  of  my  clients,  Messrs.  Beaufort,  senior  and 
junior.  I  have  had  such  work  to  find  you!  Dear,  dear!  but 
you  are  a  sly  one !  Ha,  ha !  Well,  you  see  we  have  settled 
that  little  affair  of  Plaskwith's  for  you  (might  have  been 
ugly),  and  now  I  hope  you  will  —  " 

"To  your  business,  sir!     What  do  you  want  with  me? " 

"Why,  now,  don't  be  so  quick!  'Tis  not  the  way  to  do 
business.  Suppose  you  step  to  my  hotel.  A  glass  of  wine 
now,  Mr.  Philip!     We  shall  soon  understand  each  other." 

"  Out  of  my  path,  or  speak  plainly !  " 

Thus  put  to  it,  the  lawyer,  casting  a  glance  at  his  stout 
companion,  who  appeared  to  be  contemplating  the  sunset  on 
the  other  side  of  the  way,  came  at  once  to  the  marrow  of  his 
subject. 

"  Well,  then,  —  well,  my  say  is  soon  said.  Mr.  Arthur 
Beaufort  takes  a  most  lively  interest  in  you;  it  is  he  who  has 
directed  this  inquiry.  He  bids  me  say  that  he  shall  be  most 
liappy  —  yes,  most  happy  —  to  serve  you  in  anything;  and  if 
you  will  but  see  him  (he  is  in  the  town),  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
charmed  with  him,  —  most  amiable  young  man !  " 

"Look  you,  sir,"  said  Philip,  drawing  himself  up:  "neither 
from  father,  nor  from  son,  nor  from  one  of  that  family,  on 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  157 

whose  heads  rest  the  mother's  death  and  the  orphans'  curse, 
will  I  ever  accept  boon  or  benefit;  with  them,  voluntarily,  I 
will  hold  no  communion;  if  they  force  themselves  in  my  path, 
let  them  beware !  I  am  earning  my  bread  in  the  way  I  desire ; 
I  am  independent;  I  want  them  not.     Begone!  " 

With  that,  Philip  pushed  aside  the  lawyer  and  strode  on 
rapidly.  Mr.  Blackwell,  abashed  and  perplexed,  returned  to 
his  companion. 

Philip  regained  his  home,  and  found  Sidney  stationed  at  the 
window  alone,  and  with  wistful  eyes  noting  the  flight  of  the 
gray  moths,  as  they  darted  to  and  fro  across  the  dull  shrubs, 
that,  variegated  with  lines  for  washing,  adorned  the  plot  of 
ground  which  the  landlady  called  a  garden.  The  elder  brother 
had  returned  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  and  Sidney  did  not 
at  first  perceive  him  enter.  When  he  did  he  clapped  his 
hands,  and  ran  to  him. 

"  This  is  so  good  in  you,  Philip.  I  have  been  so  dull ;  you 
will  come  and  play  now?" 

"With  all  my  heart.  Where  shall  we  play?"  said  Philip, 
with  a  cheerful  smile. 

"Oh,  in  the  garden!  it's  such  a  nice  time  for  hide  and 
seek." 

"  But  is  it  not  chill  and  damp  for  you?  "  said  Philip. 
"  There  now ;  you  are  always  making  excuses.     I  see  you 
don't  like  it.     I  have  no  heart  to  play  now." 
Sidney  seated  himself  and  pouted. 

"Poor  Sidney!  you  must  be  dull  without  me.  Yes,  let  us 
play;  but  put  on  this  handkerchief;  "  and  Philip  took  off  his 
own  cravat  and  tied  it  round  his  brother's  neck,  and  kissed 
him. 

Sidney,  whose  anger  seldom  lasted  long,  was  reconciled; 
and  they  went  into  the  garden  to  play.  It  was  a  little  spot, 
screened  by  an  old  moss-grown  paling  from  the  neighbouring 
garden  on  the  one  side  and  a  lane  on  the  other.  They  played 
with  great  glee  till  the  night  grew  darker  and  the  dews 
heavier. 

"  This  must  be  the  last  time,"  cried  Philip.  "  It  is  my  turn 
to  hide." 


158  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

"Very  well!     Now,  then." 

Philip  secreted  himself  behind  a  poplar;  and  as  Sidney- 
searched  for  him,  and  Philip  stole  round  and  round  the  tree, 
the  latter,  happening  to  look  across  the  paling,  saw  the  dim 
outline  of  a  man's  figure  in  the  lane,  who  appeared  watching 
them.  A  thrill  shot  across  his  breast.  These  Beauforts,  asso- 
ciated in  his  thoughts  with  every  evil  omen  and  augury,  had 
they  set  a  spy  upon  his  movements?  He  remained  erect  and 
gazing  at  the  form,  when  Sidney  discovered,  and  ran  up  to 
him,  with  his  noisy  laugh. 

As  the  child  clung  to  him,  shouting  with  gladness,  Philip, 
unheeding  his  playmate,  called  aloud  and  imperiously  to  the 
stranger,  — 

"  What  are  you  gaping  at?  Why  do  you  stand  watching 
us?" 

The  man  muttered  something,  moved  on,  and  disappeared. 

"  I  hope  there  are  no  thieves  here !  I  am  so  much  afraid  of 
thieves,"  said  Sidney,  tremulously. 

The  fear  grated  on  Philip's  heart.  Had  he  not  himself, 
perhaps,  been  judged  and  treated  as  a  thief?  He  said  nothing, 
but  drcAV  his  brother  within;  and  there,  in  their  little  room, 
by  the  one  poor  candle,  it  was  touching  and  beautiful  to  see 
these  boys,  —  the  tender  patience  of  the  elder  lending  itself  to 
every  whim  of  the  younger,  now  building  houses  with  cards, 
now  telling  stories  of  fairy  and  knight-errant,  the  sprightliest 
he  could  remember  or  invent.  At  length,  as  all  was  over,  and 
Sidney  was  undressing  for  the  night,  Philip,  standing  apart, 
said  to  him  in  a  mournful  voice,  — 

"Are  you  sad  now,  Sidney?" 

"No!  not  when  you  are  with  me;  but  that  is  so  seldom." 

"Do  you  read  none  of  the  story-books  I  bought  for 
you?" 

"Sometimes!  but  one  can't  read  all  day." 

"Ah,  Sidney,  if  ever  we  should  part,  perhaps  you  will  love 
me  no  longer  I  " 

"Don't  say  so,"  said  Sidney.  "But  we  sha 'n't  part, 
Philip." 

Philip  sighed,  and  turned  away  as  his  brother  leaped  into 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  159 

bed.  Something  whispered  to  him  that  danger  was  near;  and 
as  it  was,  coukl  Sidney  grow  up  neglected  and  uneducated; 
was  it  thus  that  he  was  to  fulfil  his  trust? 


CHAPTER   IX. 

But  oh,  what  storm  was  in  that  mind  !  —  Crabbe  :   Ruth. 

While  Philip  mused,  and  his  brother  fell  into  the  happy- 
sleep  of  childhood,  in  a  room  in  the  principal  hotel  of  the  town 
sat  three  persons,  Arthur  Beaufort,  Mr.  Spencer,  and  Mr. 
Blackwell. 

"And  so,"  said  the  first,  "he  rejected  every  overture  from 
the  Beauforts?" 

"With  a  scorn  I  cannot  convey  to  you! "  replied  the  lawyer. 
"  But  the  fact  is,  that  he  is  evidently  a  lad  of  low  habits ;  to 
think  of  his  being  a  sort  of  helper  to  a  horse-dealer !  I  sup- 
pose, sir,  he  was  always  in  the  stables  in  his  father's  time. 
Bad  company  depraves  the  taste  very  soon;  but  that  is  not  the 
worst.  Sharp  declares  that  the  man  he  was  talking  with,  as 
I  told  you,  is  a  common  swindler.  Depend  on  it,  Mr.  Arthur, 
he  is  incorrigible;  all  we  can  do  is  to  save  the  brother." 

"  It  is  too  dreadful  to  contemplate !  "  said  Arthur,  who,  still 
ill  and  languid,  reclined  on  a  sofa. 

"It  is,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Spencer;  "I  am  sure  I  should  not 
know  what  to  do  with  such  a  character;  but  the  other  poor 
child,  — it  would  be  a  mercy  to  get  hold  of  him." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Sharp?"  asked  Arthur. 

"Why,"  said  the  lawyer,  "he  has  followed  Philip  at  a 
distance  to  find  out  his  lodgings,  and  learn  if  his  brother  is 
with  him.  Oh,  here  he  is ! "  and  Blackwell's  companion  in 
the  earlier  part  of  the  evening  entered. 

"I  have  found  him  out,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sharp,  wiping  his 
forehead.    "What  a  fierce  'un  he  is.    I  thought  he  would  have 


160  NIGHT  AND   MORXING. 

had  a  stone  at  my  head;  but  we  officers  are  used  to  it;  we  does 
our  duty,  and  Providence  makes  our  heads  unkimmon  hard!  " 

•'Is  the  child  with  him?"  asked  Mr.  Spencer. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"A  little,  quiet,  subdued  boy?"  asked  the  melancholy 
inhabitant  of  the  Lakes. 

"  Quiet!  Lord  love  you!  never  heard  a  noisier  little  urchin! 
There  they  were  romping  and  rouping  in  the  garden,  like  a 
couple  of  jail-birds." 

"You  see,"  groaned  Mr.  Spencer,  "he  will  make  that  poor 
child  as  bad  as  himself." 

"What  shall  us  do,  Mr.  Blackwell?"  asked  Sharp,  who 
longed  for  his  brandy  and  water. 

"  Why,  I  was  thinking  you  might  go  to  the  horse-dealer  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning;  find  oat  whether  Philip  is  really 
thick  with  the  swindler;  and,  perhaps,  Mr.  Stubmore  may 
have  some  influence  with  him,  if,  without  saying  who  he 
is  —  " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Arthur,  "do  not  expose  his  name." 

"  You  could  still  hint  that  he  ought  to  be  induced  to  listen 
to  his  friends  and  go  with  them.  Mr.  Stubmore  may  be  a 
respectable  man,  and  —  " 

"I  understand,"  said  Sharp;  "I  have  no  doubt  as  howl 
can  settle  it.  We  learns  to  know  human  natur  in  our  perfes- 
sion;  'cause  why?  we  gets  at  its  blind  side.  Good  night, 
gentlemen !  " 

"  You  seem  very  pale,  Mr.  Arthur;  you  had  better  go  to  bed; 
you  promised  your  father,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  am  not  well ;  I  will  go  to  bed ; "  and  Arthur  rose, 
lighted  his  candle,  and  sought  his  room. 

"I  will  see  Philip  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself;  "he  will 
listen  to  ?ne." 

The  conduct  of  Arthur  Beaufort  in  executing  the  charge  he 
had  undertaken  had  brought  into  full  light  all  the  most  amia- 
ble and  generous  part  of  his  character.  As  soon  as  he  was 
sufficiently  recovered,  he  had  expressed  so  much  anxiety  as  to 
the  fate  of  the  orphans,  that  to  quiet  him  his  father  was  forced 
to  send  for  Mr.  Blackwell.      The  lawyer  had  ascertained, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  161 

tlirougli  Dr.  ,  the  name  of  Philip's  employer  at  II . 

At  Arthur's  request  he  went  down  to  Mr.  Flaskwith;  and 
arriving  there  the  day  after  the  return  of  the  bookseller, 
learned  those  particulars  with  which  Mr.  Plaskwith's  letter 
to  Roger  Morton  has  already  made  the  reader  acquainted. 
The  lawyer  then  sent  for  Mr.  Sharp,  the  officer  before  em- 
ployed, and  commissioned  him  to  track  the  young  man's 
whereabout.  That  shrewd  functionary  soon  reported  that  a 
youth  every  way  answering  to  Philip's  description  had  been 
introduced  the  night  of  the  escape  by  a  man  celebrated,  not 
indeed  for  robberies  or  larcenies  or  crimes  of  the  coarser  kind, 
but  for  address  in  all  that  more  large  and  complex  character 
which  comes  under  the  denomination  of  living  upon  one's  wits, 
to  a  polite  rendezvous  frequented  by  persons  of  a  similar  pro- 
fession. Since  then,  however,  all  clew  of  Philip  was  lost. 
But  though  Mr.  Blackwell,  in  the  way  of  his  profession,  was 
thus  publicly  benevolent  towards  the  fugitive,  he  did  not  the 
less  privately  represent  to  his  patrons,  senior  and  junior,  the 
very  equivocal  character  that  Philip  must  be  allowed  to  bear. 
Like  most  lawyers,  hard  upon  all  who  wander  from  the  formal 
tracks,  he  unaffectedly  regarded  Philip's  flight  and  absence  as 
proofs  of  a  reprobate  disposition;  and  this  conduct  was  greatly 
aggravated  in  his  eyes  by  Mr.  Sharp's  report,  by  which  it 
appeared  that  after  his  escape  Philip  had  so  suddenly,  and, 
as  it  were,  so  naturally,  taken  to  such  equivocal  companion- 
ship. Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  already  prejudiced  against  Philip, 
viewed  matters  in  the  same  light  as  the  lawyer;  and  the  story 
of  his  supposed  predilections  reached  Arthur's  ears  in  so  dis- 
torted a  shape,  that  even  he  was  staggered  and  revolted.  Still 
Philip  was  so  young,  Arthur's  oath  to  the  orphans'  mother 
so  recent;  and  if  thus  early  inclined  to  wrong  courses,  should 
not  every  effort  be  made  to  lure  him  back  to  the  straight  path? 
With  these  views  and  reasonings,  as  soon  as  he  was  able, 
Arthur  himself  visited  Mrs.  Lacy,  and  the  note  from  Philip, 
which  the  good  lady  put  into  his  hands,  affected  him 
deeply,  and  confirmed  all  his  previous  resolutions.  INIrs. 
Lacy  was  very  anxious  to  get  at  his  name;  but  Arthur,  hav- 
ing heard  that  Philip  had  refused  all  aid  from  his  father  and 
11 


162  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Mr.  Blackwell,  thought  that  the  young  man's  pride  might 
work  equally  against  himself,  and  therefore  evaded  the  land- 
lady's curiosity.  He  wrote  the  next  day  the  letter  we  have 
seen  to  Mr.  Roger  Morton,  whose  address  Catherine  had  given 
to  him;  and  by  return  of  post  came  a  letter  from  the  linen- 
draper  narrating  the  flight  of  Sidney,  as  it  was  supposed  with 
his  brother.     This  news  so  excited  Arthur,  that  he  insisted 

on  going  down  to  N at  once,  and  joining  in  the  search. 

His  father,  alarmed  for  his  health,  positively  refused;  and 
the  consequence  was  an  increase  of  fever,  a  consultation  with 
the  doctors,  and  a  declaration  that  Mr.  Arthur  was  in  that 
state  that  it  would  be  dangerous  not  to  let  him  have  his  own 
way.     Mr.  Beaufort  was  forced  to  yield,  and  with  Blackwell 

and  Mr.  Sharp  accompanied  his  son  to  N .    The  inquiries, 

hitherto  fruitless,  then  assumed  a  more  regular  and  business- 
like character.  By  little  and  little  they  came,  through  the 
aid  of  Mr.  Sharp,  upon  the  right  clew,  up  to  a  certain  point. 
But  here  there  was  a  double  scent:  two  youths  answering  the 
description  had  been  seen  at  a  small  village ;  then  there  came 
those  who  asserted  that  they  had  seen  the  same  youths  at  a 
seaport  in  one  direction;  others  who  deposed  to  their  having 
taken  the  road  to  an  inland  town  in  the  other.  This  had 
induced  Arthur  and  his  father  to  part  company.  Mr.  Beau- 
fort, accompanied  by  Roger  Morton,  went  to  the  seaport;  and 
Arthur,  with  Mr.  Spencer  and  Mr.  Sharp,  more  fortunate, 
tracked  the  fugitives  to  their  retreat.  As  for  Mr.  Beaufort, 
senior,  now  that  his  mind  was  more  at  ease  about  his  son,  he 
was  thoroughly  sick  of  the  whole  thing;  greatly  bored  by  the 
society  of  Mr.  Morton;  very  much  ashamed  that  he,  so  respect- 
able and  great  a  man,  should  be  employed  on  such  an  errand ; 
more  afraid  of  than  pleased  with  any  chance  of  discovering 
the  fierce  Philip;  and  secretly  resolved  upon  slinking  back 
to  London  at  the  first  reasonable  excuse. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Sharp  entered  betimes  Mr.  Stub- 
more's  counting-house.  In  the  yard  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Philip,  and  managed  to  keep  himself  unseen  by  that  young 
gentleman. 

"Mr.  Stubmore,  I  think?" 


NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG.  163 

"At  your  service,  sir." 

Mr.  Sharp  shut  the  glass  door  mysteriously,  and  lifting  up 
the  corner  of  a  green  curtain  that  covered  the  panes,  beckoned 
to  the  startled  Stubmore  to  approach. 

"You  see  that  'ere  young  man  in  the  velveteen  jacket;  you 
employs  him?" 

"I  do,  sir;  he  's  my  right  hand." 

"Well,  now,  don't  be  frightened,  but  his  friends  are  arter 
him.  He  has  got  into  bad  ways,  and  we  want  you  to  give 
him  a  little  good  advice." 

"Fooh!  I  know  he  has  run  away,  like  a  fine-spirited  lad  as 
he  is;  and  as  long  as  he  likes  to  stay  with  me,  they  as  comes 
after  him  may  get  a  ducking  in  the  horse-trough !  " 

"Be  you  a  father,  — a  father  of  a  family,  Mr.  Stubmore?" 
said  Sharp,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  breeches  pockets, 
swelling  out  his  stomach,  and  pursing  up  his  lips  with  great 
solemnity. 

"  iSTonsense !  no  gammon  with  me !  Take  your  chaff  to  the 
goslings.  I  tells  you  I  can't  do  without  that  'ere  lad.  Every 
man  to  himself." 

"  Oho !  "  thought  Sharp,  "  I  must  change  the  tack.  —  Mr. 
Stubmore,"  said  he,  taking  a  stool,  "you  speaks  like  a  sensi- 
ble man.  No  one  can  reasonably  go  for  to  ask  a  gentleman  to 
go  for  to  inconvenience  his-self.  But  what  do  you  know  of 
that  'ere  youngster?     Had  you  a  carakter  with  him?  " 

"  What 's  that  to  you?" 

"  Why,  it 's  more  to  yourself,  Mr.  Stubmore.  He  is  but  a 
lad,  and  if  he  goes  back  to  his  friends  they  may  take  care 
of  him;  but  he  got  into  a  bad  set  afore  he  come  here. 
Do  you  know  a  good-looking  chap  with  whiskers,  who 
talks  of  his  pheaton,  and  was  riding  last  night  on  a  brown 
mare?" 

"  Y — e — s !  "  said  Mr.  Stubmore,  growing  rather  pale,  "  and 
I  knows  the  mare,  too.     Why,  sir,  I  sold  him  that  mare !  " 

"  Did  he  pay  you  for  her?  " 
'  "Why,  to  be  sure,  he  gave  me  a  check  on  Coutts." 

"And  you  took  it!  My  eyes!  what  a  fiat!"  Here  Mr. 
Sharp  closed  the  orbs  he  had  invoked,  and  whistled  with  that 


164  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

self-hugging  delight  which  men  invariably  feel  when  another 
man  is  taken  in. 

Mr.  Stubmore  became  evidently  nervous. 

"Why,  what  now;  you  don't  think  I'm  done?  I  did  not 
let  him  have  the  mare  till  I  went  to  the  hotel,  found  he  was 
cutting  a  great  dash  there,  a  groom,  a  pheaton,  and  a  fine 
horse,  and  as  extravagant  as  the  devil !  " 

"0  Lord!  0  Lord!  what  a  world  this  is!  What  does  he 
callhis-self?" 

"  Why,  here  's  the  check,  —  George  Frederick  de  —  de  Burgh 
Smith." 

"  Put  it  in  your  pipe,  my  man,  —  put  it  in  your  pipe ;  not 
worth  a  d — !  " 

"  And  who  the  deuce  are  you,  sir?  "  bawled  out  Mr.  Stub- 
more,  in  an  equal  rage  both  with  himself  and  his  guest. 

"  I,  sir, "  said  the  visitor,  rising  with  great  dignity,  —  "  I, 
sir,  am  of  the  great  Bow  Street  Office,  and  my  name  is  John 
Sharp!" 

Mr.  Stubmore  nearly  fell  off  his  stool,  his  eyes  rolled  in  his 
head,  and  his  teeth  chattered.  Mr.  Sharp  perceived  the  ad- 
vantage he  had  gained,  and  continued,  — 

"Yes,  sir;  and  I  could  have  much  to  say  against  that  chap, 
who  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  Dashing  Jerry,  as  has  ruined 
more  girls  and  more  tradesmen  than  any  lord  in  the  land. 
And  so  I  called  to  give  you  a  bit  of  caution;  for,  says  I  to 
myself,  '  Mr.  Stubmore  is  a  respectable  man. '  " 

"  I  hope  I  am,  sir, "  said  the  crest-fallen  horsedealer ;  "  that 
was  always  my  character." 

"And  the  father  of  a  famil}'?" 

"Three  boys  and  a  babe  at  the  buzzom,"  said  IMr.  Stubmore, 
pathetically. 

"And  he  sha'n't  be  taken  in  if  I  can  help  it!  That  'ere 
young  man  as  I  am  arter,  you  see,  knows  Captain  Smith.  Ha, 
ha!  smell  a  rat  now,  eh?" 

"  Captain  Smith  said  he  knew  him  —  the  wiper  —  and  that 's 
what  made  me  so  green." 

"Well,  we  must  not  be  hard  on  the  youngster;  'cause  why? 
he  has  friends  as  is  gemmen.     But  you  tell  him  to  go  back  to 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  165 

his  poor  dear  relations,  and  all  shall  be  forgiven;  and  say  as 
how  you  won't  keep  him;  and  if  he  don't  go  back,  he  '11  have 
to  get  his  livelihood  without  a  carakter;  and  use  your  influ- 
ence with  him  like  a  man  and  a  Christian,  and  what 's  more, 
like  the  father  of  a  family,  Mr.  Stubmore,  with  three  boys 
and  a  babe  at  the  buzzom.     You  won't  keep  him  now?  " 

"Keep  him!  I  have  had  a  precious  escape.  I  'd  better  go 
and  see  after  the  mare. " 

"I  doubt  if  you  '11  find  her;  the  Captain  caught  a  sight  of 
me  this  morning.  Why,  he  lodges  at  our  hotel!  He  's  off  by 
this  time !  " 

"And  why  the  devil  did  you  let  him  go? " 

"'Cause  I  had  no  writ  agin  him!"  said  the  Bow  Street 
officer;  and  he  walked  straight  out  of  the  counting-oifice, 
satisfied  that  he  had  "done  the  job." 

To  snatch  his  hat,  to  run  to  the  hotel,  to  find  that  Captain 
Smith  had  indeed  gone  off  in  his  phaeton,  bag  and  baggage, 
the  same  as  he  came,  except  that  he  had  now  two  horses  to  the 
phaeton  instead  of  one  —  having  left  with  the  landlord  the 
amount  of  his  bill  in  another  check  upon  Coutts  —  was  the 
work  of  five  minutes  with  Mr.  Stubmore.  He  returned  home, 
panting  and  purple  with  indignation  and  wounded  feeling. 

"  To  think  that  chap,  whom  I  took  into  my  yard  like  a  son, 
should  have  connived  at  this!  'T ain't  the  money;  'tis  the 
willany  that  'flicts  me!"  muttered  Mr.  Stubmore,  as  he  re- 
entered the  mews. 

Here  he  came  plump  upon  Philip,  who  said,  — 

"  Sir,  I  wished  to  see  you,  to  say  that  you  had  better  take 
care  of  Captain  Smith." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you,  now  he's  gone?  'sconded  off  to 
America,  I  dare  say,  by  this  time.  Now  look  ye,  young  man : 
your  friends  are  after  you,  I  won't  say  anything  agin  you;  but 
you  go  back  to  them,  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  Quite  too 
much  for  me.  There's  your  week,  and  never  let  me  catch 
you  in  my  yard  agin,  that 's  all!  " 

Philip  dropped  the  money  which  Stubmore  had  put  into  his 
hand.  "My  friends!  friends  have  been  with  you,  have  they? 
I  thought  so;   I  thank   them.      And  so   you  part  with  me? 


166  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

Well,  you  have  been  very  kind,  very  kind;  let  us  part 
kindly;"   and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Mr.  Stubmore  was  softened ;  he  touched  the  hand  held  out 
to  him,  and  looked  doubtful  a  moment;  but  Captain  de  Burgh 
Smith's  check  for  eighty  guineas  suddenly  rose  before  his 
eyes.  He  turned  on  his  heel  abruptly,  and  said,  over  his 
shoulder,  — 

"Don't  go  after  Captain  Smith  (he  '11  come  to  the  gallows); 
mend  your  ways,  and  be  ruled  by  your  poor  dear  relatives, 
whose  hearts  you  are  breaking." 

"  Captain  Smith !     Did  my  relations  tell  you?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  they  told  me  all;  that  is,  they  sent  to  tell  me; 
so  you  see  I  'm  d — d  soft  not  to  lay  hold  of  you.  But,  per- 
haps, if  they  be  gemmen,  they  '11  act  as  sich,  and  cash  me  this 
here  check! " 

But  the  last  words  were  said  to  air.  Philip  had  rushed 
from  the  yard. 

With  a  heaving  breast,  and  every  nerve  in  his  body  quiver- 
ing with  wrath,  the  proud,  unhappy  boy  strode  through  the 
gay  streets.  They  had  betrayed  him  then,  these  accursed 
Beauforts !  they  circled  his  steps  with  schemes  to  drive  him 
like  a  deer  into  the  snare  of  their  loathsome  charity!  The 
roof  was  to  be  taken  from  his  head,  the  bread  ffom  his  lips, 
so  that  he  might  fawn  at  their  knees  for  bounty.  "But  they 
shall  not  break  my  spirit,  nor  steal  away  my  curse.  Xo,  my 
dead  mother,  never !  " 

As  he  thus  muttered,  he  passed  through  a  patch  of  waste 
land  that  led  to  the  row  of  houses  in  which  his  lodging  was 
placed.  And  here  a  voice  called  to  him,  and  a  hand  was  laid 
on  his  shoulder.  He  turned,  and  Arthur  Beaufort,  who  had 
followed  him  from  the  street,  stood  behind  him.  Philip  did 
not,  at  the  first  glance,  recognize  his  cousin;  illness  had  so 
altered  him,  and  his  dress  was  so  different  from  that  in  which 
he  had  first  and  last  beheld  him.  The  contrast  between  the 
two  young  men  was  remarkable.  Philip  was  clad  in  a  rough 
garb  suited  to  his  late  calling,  —  a  jacket  of  black  velveteen, 
ill-fitting  and  ill-fashioned,  loose  fustian  trousers,  coarse  shoes, 
his  hat  set  deep  over  his  pent  eyebrows,  his  raven  hair  long 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  167 

and  neglected.  He  was  just  at  that  age  when  one  with  strong 
features  and  robust  frame  is  at  the  worst  in  point  of  appear- 
ance, —  the  sinewy  proportions  not  yet  sufficiently  fleshed,  and 
seeming  inharmonious  and  undeveloped,  precisely  in  propor- 
tion, perhaps,  to  the  symmetry  towards  which  they  insensibly 
mature ;  the  contour  of  the  face  sharpened  from  the  roundness 
of  boyhood,  and  losing  its  bloom  without  yet  acquiring  that 
relief  and  shadow  which  make  the  expression  and  dignity  of 
the  masculine  countenance.  Thus  accoutred,  thus  gaunt  and 
uncouth,  stood  Morton.  Arthur  Beaufort,  always  refined  in  his 
appearance,  seemed  yet  more  so  from  the  almost  feminine  deli- 
cacy which  ill-health  threw  over  his  pale  complexion  and  grace- 
ful figure;  that  sort  of  unconscious  elegance  which  belongs  to 
the  dress  of  the  rich  when  they  are  young  —  seen  most  in 
minutite,  not  observable,  perhaps,  by  themselves  —  marked 
forcibly  and  painfully  the  distinction  of  rank  between  the 
two.  That  distinction  Beaufort  did  not  feel ;  but  at  a  glance 
it  was  visible  to  Philip. 

The  past  rushed  back  on  him.  The  sunny  lawn,  the  gun 
offered  and  rejected,  the  pride  of  old,  much  less  haughty  than 
the  pride  of  to-day. 

"Philip,"  said  Beaufort,  feebly,  "they  tell  me  you  will  not 
accept  any  kindness  from  me  or  mine.  Ah,  if  you  knew  how 
we  have  sought  you!  " 

"Knew!  "  cried  Philip,  savagely,  for  that  unlucky  sentence 
recalled  to  him  his  late  interview  with  his  employer,  and  his 
present  destitution.  "Knew!  And  why  have  you  dared  to 
hunt  me  out,  and  halloo  me  down;  why  must  this  insolent 
tyranny,  that  assumes  the  right  over  these  limbs  and  this  free 
will,  betray  and  expose  me  and  my  wretchedness  wherever  I 
turn?" 

"  Your  poor  mother  —  "  began  Beaufort. 

"Name  her  not  with  your  lips,  name  her  not!  "  cried  Philip, 
growing  livid  with  his  emotions.  "Talk  not  of  the  mercy, 
the  forethought,  a  Beaufort  could  show  to  her  and  her  off- 
spring! I  accept  it  not,  I  believe  it  not!  Oh,  yes!  you  fol- 
low me  now  with  your  false  kindness;  and  why?  Because 
your  father,  your  vain,  hollow,  heartless  father  —  " 


168  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

"  Hold ! "  said  Beaufort,  in  a  tone  of  such  reproach  that  it 
startled  the  wild  heart  on  which  it  fell ;  "  it  is  my  father  you 
speak  of.     Let  the  son  respect  the  son." 

"  No,  no,  no !  I  will  respect  none  of  your  race.  I  tell  you 
your  father  fears  me !  I  tell  you  that  my  last  words  to  him 
ring  in  his  ears!  My  wrongs!  Arthur  Beaufort,  when  you 
are  absent  I  seek  to  forget  them;  in  your  abhorred  presence 
they  revive,  they  —  " 

He  stopped,  almost  choked  with  his  passion;  but  continued 
instantly,  with  equal  intensity  of  fervour,  — 

"  Were  yon  tree  the  gibbet,  and  to  touch  your  hand  could 
alone  save  me  from  it,  I  would  scorn  your  aid.  Aid!  the 
very  thought  fires  my  blood  and  nerves  my  hand.  Aid!  Will 
a  Beaufort  give  me  back  my  birthright,  restore  my  dead  moth- 
er's fair  name?  Minion!  —  sleek,  dainty,  luxurious  minion! 
—  out  of  my  path!  You  have  my  fortune,  my  station,  my 
rights;  I  have  but  poverty  and  hate  and  disdain.  I  swear, 
again  and  again,  that  you  shall  not  purchase  these  from  me." 

"But,  Philip,  Philip,"  cried  Beaufort,  catching  his  arm; 
"  hear  one,  hear  one  who  stood  by  your  —  " 

The  sentence  that  would  have  saved  the  outcast  from  the 
demons  that  were  darkening  and  swooping  round  his  soul  died 
upon  the  young  Protector's  lips.  Blinded,  maddened,  excited, 
and  exasperated  almost  out  of  humanity  itself,  Philip  fiercely, 
brutally,  swung  aside  the  enfeebled  form  that  sought  to  cling 
to  him,  and  Beaufort  fell  at  his  feet.  Morton  stopped,  glared 
at  him  with  clenched  hands  and  a  smiling  lip,  sprung  over  his 
prostrate  form,  and  bounded  to  his  home. 

He  slackened  his  pace  as  he  neared  the  house,  and  looked 
behind ;  but  Beaufort  had  not  followed  him.  He  entered  the 
house,  and  found  Sidney  in  the  room,  with  a  countenance  so 
much  more  gay  than  that  he  had  lately  worn  that,  absorbed  as 
he  was  in  thought  and  passion,  it  yet  did  not  fail  to  strike 
him. 

"What  has  pleased  you,  Sidney?" 

The  child  smiled. 

"Ah!  it  is  a  secret;  I  was  not  to  tell  you.  But  I  'm  sure 
you  are  not  the  naughty  boy  he  says  you  are." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  109 

"He!  who?" 

"Don't  look  so  angry,  Tliilip;  you  frighten  me!  " 

"And  you  torture  me.  Who  could  malign  one  brother  to 
the  other?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  meant  very  kindly.  There 's  been  such  a 
nice,  dear,  good  gentleman  here,  and  he  cried  when  he  saw 
me,  and  said  he  knew  dear  Mamma.  Well,  and  he  has  prom- 
ised to  take  me  home  with  him  and  give  me  a  pretty  pony,  as 
pretty,  as  pretty,  oh,  as  pretty  as  it  can  be  got!  And  he  is  to 
call  again  and  tell  me  more;  I  think  he  is  a  fairy,  Philip." 

"Did  he  say  that  he  was  to  take  me,  too,  Sidney?"  said 
Morton,  seating  himself,  and  looking  very  pale.  At  that 
question  Sidney  hung  his  head. 

"  No,  brother,  he  says  you  won't  go,  and  that  you  are  a  bad 
boy,  and  that  you  associate  with  wicked  people,  and  that  you 
want  to  keep  me  shut  up  here  and  not  let  any  one  be  good  to 
me;  but  I  told  him  I  did  not  believe  that,  —yes,  indeed,  I 
told  him  so." 

And  Sidney  endeavoured  caressingly  to  withdraw  the  hands 
that  his  brother  placed  before  his  face. 

Morton  started  up,  and  walked  hastily  to  and  fro  the  room. 
"This,"  thought  he,  "is  another  emissary  of  the  Beauforts', 
—  perhaps  the  lawyer;  they  will  take  him  from  me,  — the  last 
thing  left  to  love  and  hope  for.  I  will  foil  them.  —  Sid- 
ney," he  said  aloud,  "we  must  go  hence  to-day,  this  very 
hour,  nay,  instantly." 

"What!  away  from  this  nice,  good  gentleman?" 

"Curse  him!  yes,  away  from  him.  Do  not  cry;  it  is  of  no 
use;  you  must  go." 

This  was  said  more  harshly  than  Philip  had  ever  yet  spoken 
to  Sidney;  and  when  he  had  said  it,  he  left  the  room  to  settle 
with  the  landlady,  and  to  pack  up  their  scanty  effects.  In 
another  hour,  the  brothers  had  turned  their  backs  on  the 
town. 


170  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER   X. 


I  'll  carry  thee 
In  sorrow's  arms  to  welcome  Misery. 

Heywood  :  Duchess  of  Suffolk. 

Who  's  here  besides  foul  weather  1 

Shakspeake  :    Lear. 

The  sun  was  as  bright  and  the  sky  as  calm  during  the 
journey  of  the  orphans  as  in  the  last.  They  avoided,  as 
before,  the  main  roads,  and  their  way  lay  through  landscapes 
that  might  have  charmed  a  Gainsborough's  eye.  Autumn 
scattered  its  last  hues  of  gold  over  the  various  foliage,  and 
the  poppy  glowed  from  the  hedges,  and  the  wild  convolvuli, 
here  and  there,  still  gleamed  on  the  wayside  with  a  parting 
smile. 

At  times,  over  the  sloping  stubbles,  broke  the  sound  of  the 
sportsman's  gun;  and  ever  and  anon,  by  stream  and  sedge, 
they  startled  the  shy  wild  fowl,  just  come  from  the  far  lands, 
nor  yet  settled  in  the  new  haunts  too  soon  to  be  invaded. 

But  there  was  no  longer  in  the  travellers  the  same  hearts 
that  had  made  light  of  hardship  and  fatigue.  Sidney  was  no 
longer  flying  from  a  harsh  master ;  and  his  step  was  not  elas- 
tic with  the  energy  of  fear  that  looked  behind,  and  of  hope 
that  smiled  before.  He  was  going  a  toilsome,  weary  journey, 
he  knew  not  why  nor  whither ;  just,  too,  when  he  had  made  a 
friend,  whose  soothing  words  haunted  his  childish  fancy.  He 
was  displeased  with  Philip,  and  in  sullen  and  silent  thought- 
fulness  slowly  plodded  behind  him ;  and  Morton  himself  was 
gloomy,  and  knew  not  where  in  the  world  to  seek  a  future. 

They  arrived  at  dusk  at  a  small  inn,  not  so  far  distant  from 
the  town  they  had  left  as  Morton  could  have  wished;  but  the 
days  were  shorter  than  in  their  first  flight. 

They  were  shown  into  a  small  sanded  parlour,  which  Sidney 
eyed  with  great  disgust;  nor  did  he  seem  more  pleased  with 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  171 

the  hacked  and  jagged  leg  of  cold  mutton,  which  was  all  that 
the  hostess  set  before  them  for  supper.  Philip  in  vain  endeav- 
oured to  cheer  him  up,  and  ate  to  set  him  the  example.  He 
felt  relieved  when,  under  the  auspices  of  a  good-looking,  good- 
natured  chambermaid,  Sidney  retired  to  rest,  and  he  was  left 
in  the  parlour  to  his  own  meditations.  Hitherto  it  had  been 
a  happy  thing  for  Morton  that  he  had  had  some  one  dependent 
on  him;  that  feeling  had  given  him  perseverance,  patience, 
fortitude,  and  hope.  But  now,  dispirited  and  sad,  he  felt 
rather  the  horror  of  being  responsible  for  a  human  life,  with- 
out seeing  the  means  to  discharge  the  trust.  It  was  clear, 
even  to  his  experience,  that  he  was  not  likely  to  find  another 
employer  as  facile  as  Mr.  Stubmore ;  and  wherever  he  went, 
he  felt  as  if  his  Destiny  stalked  at  his  back.  He  took  out  his 
little  fortune  and  spread  it  on  the  table,  counting  it  over  and 
over;  it  had  remained  pretty  stationary  since  his  service  with 
Mr.  Stubmore,  for  Sidney  had  swallowed  up  the  wages  of  his 
hire.  While  thus  employed,  the  door  opened,  and  the  cham- 
bermaid, showing  in  a  gentleman,  said,  "We  have  no  other 
room,  sir." 

"Very  well,  then, — I'm  not  particular;  a  tumbler  of 
braundy  and  water,  stiffish  —  cold  without  —  the  newspaper, 
and  a  cigar.     You  '11  excuse  smoking,  sir?  " 

Philip  looked  up  from  his  hoard,  and  Captain  de  Burgh 
Smith  stood  before  him. 

"Ah!  "  said  the  latter,  "well  met!  "  And  closing  the  door, 
he  took  off  his  great-coat,  seated  himself  near  Philip,  and  bent 
both  his  eyes  with  considerable  wistfulness  on  the  neat  rows 
into  which  Philip's  bank-notes,  sovereigns,  and  shillings  were 
arrayed. 

"Pretty  little  sum  for  pocket  money;  caush  in  hand  goes  a 
great  way,  properly  invested.  You  must  have  been  very 
lucky.  Well,  so  I  suppose  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  here 
without  my  pheaton?" 

"I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you  at  all,"  replied  Philip,  uncour- 
teously,  and  restoring  his  money  to  his  pocket;  "your  fraud 
upon  Mr.  Stubmore  and  your  assurance  that  you  knew  me 
have  sent  me  adrift  upon  the  world." 


172  NIGHT   AXD  MORNIXG. 

"  What 's  one  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison,"  said  the 
Captain,  philosophically;  "no  use  fretting,  care  killed  a  cat. 
I  am  as  badly  oif  as  you;  for,  hang  me,  if  there  was  not  a  Bow 
Street  runner  in  the  town.     I  caught  his  eye  fixed  on  me  like 

a  gimblet;  so  I  bolted,  went  to  N ,  left  my  phe«ton  and 

groom  there  for  the  present,  and  have  doubled  back,  to  baufiie 
pursuit,  and  cut  across  the  country.  You  recollect  that  noice 
girl  we  saw  in  the  coach;  'gad,  I  served  her  spouse  that  is  to 
be  a  praetty  trick!  Borrowed  his  money  under  pretence  of 
investing  it  in  the  New  Grand  Anti-Dry-Rot  Company;  cool 
hundred;  it's  only  just  gone,  sir." 

Here  the  chambermaid  entered  with  the  brandy  and  water, 
the  newspaper  and  cigar.  The  Captain  lighted  the  last,  took 
a  deep  sup  from  the  beverage,  and  said  gayly,  — 

"  Well,  now,  let  us  join  fortunes ;  we  are  both,  as  you  say, 
*  adrift.'  Best  way  to  staund  the  breeze  is  to  unite  the 
caubles." 

Philip  shook  his  head,  and,  displeased  with  his  companion, 
sought  his  pillow.  He  took  care  to  put  his  money  under  his 
head,  and  to  lock  his  door. 

The  brothers  started  at  daybreak;  Sidney  was  even  more 
discontented  than  on  the  previous  day.  The  weather  was  hot 
and  oppressive;  they  rested  for  some  hours  at  noon,  and  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening  renewed  their  way.  Philip  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  steer  for  a  town  in  the  thick  of  a  hunting  dis- 
trict, where  he  hoped  his  equestrian  capacities  might  again 
befriend  him ;  and  their  path  now  lay  through  a  chain  of  vast 
dreary  commons,  which  gave  them  at  least  the  advantage  to 
skirt  the  road-side  unobserved.  But,  somehow  or  other,  either 
Philip  had  been  misinformed  as  to  an  inn  where  he  had  pro- 
posed to  pass  the  night,  or  he  had  missed  it;  for  the  clouds 
darkened  and  the  sun  went  down,  and  no  vestige  of  human 
habitation  was  discernible.  Sidney,  footsore  and  querulous, 
began  to  weep,  and  declare  that  he  could  stir  no  farther;  and 
while  Philip,  whose  iron  frame  defied  fatigue,  compassionately 
paused  to  rest  his  brother,  a  low  roll  of  thunder  broke  upon 
the  gloomy  air.  "There  will  be  a  storm,"  said  he,  anxiously. 
"Come  on;  pray,  Sidney,  come  on." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  173 

"It  is  so  cruel  in  you,  brother  Philip,"  replied  Sidney, 
sobbing.     "I  wish  I  had  never  —  never  gone  with  you," 

A  flash  of  lightning,  that  illuminated  the  whole  heavens, 
lingered  round  Sidney's  pale  face  as  he  spoke;  and  Philip 
threw  himself  instinctively  on  the  child,  as  if  to  protect  him 
even  from  the  wrath  of  the  unshelterable  flame.  Sidney, 
hushed  and  terrified,  clung  to  his  brother's  breast;  after  a 
pause,  he  silently  consented  to  resume  their  journey.  But 
now  the  storm  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  wanderers.  The 
darkness  grew  rapidly  more  intense,  save  when  the  lightning 
lit  up  heaven  and  earth  alike  with  intolerable  lustre;  and 
when  at  length  the  rain  began  to  fall  in  merciless  and  drench- 
ing torrents,  even  Philip's  brave  heart  failed  him.  How 
could  he  ask  Sidney  to  proceed,  when  they  could  scarcely  see 
an  inch  before  them?  All  that  could  now  be  done  Avas  to  gain 
the  high  road,  and  hope  for  some  passing  conveyance.  With 
fits  and  starts,  and  by  the  glare  of  the  lightning,  they  obtained 
their  object ;  and  stood  at  last  on  the  great  broad  thoroughfare, 
along  which,  since  the  day  when  the  Koman  carved  it  from 
the  waste,  Misery  hath  plodded  and  Luxury  rolled  their  com- 
mon way. 

Philip  had  stripped  handkerchief,  coat,  vest,  all  to  shelter 
Sidney;  and  he  felt  a  kind  of  strange  pleasure  through  the 
dark  even  to  hear  Sidney's  voice  wail  and  moan.  But  that 
voice  grew  more  languid  and  faint;  it  ceased;  Sidney's  weight 
hung  heavy,  heavier  on  the  fostering  arm. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  speak!  speak,  Sidney!  only  one  word! 
I  will  carry  you  in  my  arms !  " 

"I  think  I  am  dying,"  replied  Sidney,  in  a  low  murmur;  "I 
am  so  tired  and  worn  out  I  can  go  no  farther;  I  must  lie 
here."  And  he  sank  at  once  upon  the  reeking  grass  beside 
the  road.  At  this  time  the  rain  gradually  relaxed ;  the  clouds 
broke  away;  a  gray  light  succeeded  to  the  darkness;  the  light- 
ning was  more  distant,  and  the  thunder  rolled  onward  in  its 
awful  path.  Kneeling  on  the  ground,  Philip  supported  his 
brother  in  his  arms,  and  cast  his  pleading  eyes  upward  to  the 
softening  terrors  of  the  sky.  A  star,  a  solitary  star,  broke 
out  for  one  moment,  as  if  to  smile  comfort  upon  him,  and  then 


174  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

vanished.  But  lo!  in  the  distance  there  suddenly  gleamed  a 
red,  steady  light,  like  that  in  some  solitary  window.  It  was 
no  will-o'-the-wisp, — it  was  too  stationary;  human  shelter 
was  then  nearer  than  he  had  thought  for.  He  pointed  to  the 
light,  and  whispered,  "Eouse  yourself,  one  struggle  more;  it 
cannot  be  far  off." 

"It  is  impossible;  I  cannot  stir,"  answered  Sidney;  and  a 
sudden  flash  of  lightning  showed  his  countenance,  ghastly,  as 
if  with  the  damps  of  Death.  What  could  the  brother  do,  — 
stay  there,  and  see  the  boy  perish  before  his  eyes ;  leave  him 
on  the  road  and  fly  to  the  friendly  light?  The  last  plan  was 
the  sole  one  left,  yet  he  shrank  from  it  in  greater  terror  than 
the  first.  Was  that  a  step  that  he  heard  across  the  road?  He 
held  his  breath  to  listen;  a  form  became  dimly  visible;  it 
approached. 

Philip  shouted  aloud. 

"What  now?"  answered  the  voice,  and  it  seemed  familiar 
to  Morton's  ear.  He  sprang  forward;  and  putting  his  face 
close  to  the  wayfarer,  thought  to  recognize  the  features  of 
Captain  de  Burgh  Smith.  The  Captain,  whose  eyes  were  y.et 
more  accustomed  to  the  dark,  made  the  first  overture. 

"Why,  my  lad,  is    it  you   then?     'Gad,  you  froightened 


me 


Odious  as  this  man  had  hitherto  been  to  Philip,  he  was  as 
welcome  to  him  as  daylight  now;  he  grasped  his  hand.  "My 
brother,  a  child,  is  here,  dying,  I  fear,  with  cold  and  fatigue ; 
he  cannot  stir.  Will  you  stay  with  him,  support  him,  but  for 
a  few  moments,  while  I  make  to  yon  light?  See,  I  have 
money,  plenty  of  money!  " 

"  My  good  lad,  it  is  very  ugly  work  staying  here  at  this 
hour;  still  —  where 's  the  choild?" 

"Here,  here!  make  haste,  raise  him!  that's  right!  God 
bless  you!     I  shall  be  back  ere  you  think  me  gone.'' 

He  sprang  from  the  road,  and  plunged  through  the  heath, 
the  furze,  the  rank  glistening  pools,  straight  towards  the 
light,  as  the  swimmer  towards  the  shore. 

The  Captain,  though  a  rogue,  was  human;  and  when  life,  an 
innocent  life,  is  at  stake,  even  a  rogue's  heart  rises  up  from 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  175 

its  weedy  bed.  He  muttered  a  few  oaths,  it  is  true,  Ijut  he 
held  the  child  in  his  arms;  and,  taking  out  a  little  tin  case, 
poured  some  brandy  down  Sidney's  throat,  and  then,  by  way 
of  company,  down  his  own.  The  cordial  revived  the  boy;  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  said,  "I  think  I  can  go  on  now,  Philip." 

We  must  return  to  Arthur  Beaufort.  He  was  naturally, 
though  gentle,  a  person  of  high  spirit,  and  not  without  pride. 
He  rose  from  the  ground  with  bitter,  resentful  feelings  and  a 
blushing  cheek,  and  went  his  way  to  the  hotel.  Here  he 
found  Mr.  Spencer  just  returned  from  his  visit  to  Sidney. 
Enchanted  with  the  soft  and  endearing  manners  of  his  lost 
Catherine's  son,  and  deeijly  affected  with  the  resemblance  the 
child  bore  to  the  mother  as  he  had  seen  her  last  at  the  gay 
and  rosy  age  of  fair  sixteen,  his  description  of  the  younger 
brother  drew  Beaufort's  indignant  thoughts  from  the  elder. 
He  cordially  concurred  with  ]\Ir.  Spencer  in  the  wish  to  save 
one  so  gentle  from  the  domination  of  one  so  fierce;  and  this, 
after  all,  was  the  child  Catherine  had  most  strongly  com- 
mended  to  him.  She  had  said  little  of  the  elder;  perhaps 
she  had  been  aware  of  his  ungracious  and  untractable  nature, 
and,  as  it  seemed  to  Arthur  Beaufort,  his  predilections  for  a 
coarse  and  low  career. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "this  boy,  then,  shall  console  me  for  the 
perverse  brutality  of  the  other.  He  shall  indeed  drink  of  my 
cup,  and  eat  of  my  bread,  and  be  to  me  as  a  brother." 

"What!"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  changing  countenance,  "you 
do  not  intend  to  take  Sidney  to  live  with  you  ?  I  meant  him 
for  my  son,  my  adopted  son." 

"jSTo;  generous  as  you  are,"  said  Arthur,  pressing  his  hand, 
"this  charge  devolves  on  me;  it  is  my  right,  I  am  the 
orphan's  relation,  his  mother  consigned  him  to  me;  but  he 
shall  be  taught  to  love  you  not  the  less." 

Mr.  Spencer  was  silent.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
losing  Sidney  as  an  inmate  of  his  cheerless  home,  a  tender 
relic  of  his  early  love.  From  that  moment  he  began  to  con- 
template the  possibility  of  securing  Sidney  to  himself  un- 
known to  Beaufort. 


176  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

The  plans  both  of  Arthur  and  Spencer  were  interrupted  by 
the  sudden  retreat  of  the  brothers.  They  determined  to  de- 
part different  ways  in  search  of  them.  Spencer,  as  the  more 
helpless  of  the  two,  obtained  the  aid  of  Mr,  Sharp;  Beaufort 
departed  with  the  lawyer. 

Two  travellers,  in  a  hired  barouche,  were  slowly  dragged 
by  a  pair  of  jaded  posters  along  the  commons  I  have  just 
described. 

"I  think,"  said  one,  "that  the  storm  is  very  much  abated; 
heigho!  what  an  unpleasant  night!  " 

"Unkimmon  ugly,  sir,"  answered  the  other;  "and  an  awful 
long  stage,  eighteen  miles.  These  here  remote  places  are  quite 
behind  the  age,  sir,  quite.  However,  I  think  we  shall  kitch 
them  now." 

"I  am  very  much  afraid  of  that  eldest  boy,  Sharp.  He 
seems  a  dreadful  vagabond." 

"You  see,  sir,  quite  hand  in  glove  with  Dashing  Jerry;  met 
in  the  same  inn  last  night,  —  preconcerted,  you  may  be  quite 
sure.  It  would  be  the  best  day's  job  I  have  done  this  many  a 
day  to  save  that  'ere  little  fellow  from  being  corrupted.  You 
sees  he  is  just  of  a  size  to  be  useful  to  these  bad  karakters. 
If  they  took  to  burglary  he  would  be  a  treasure  to  them,  — 
slip  him  through  a  pane  of  glass  like  a  ferret,  sir." 

"Don't  talk  of  it.  Sharp,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  with  a  groan; 
"and  recollect,  if  we  get  hold  of  him,  that  you  are  not  to  say 
a  word  to  Mr.  Beaufort." 

"I  understand,  sir;  and  I  always  goes  with  the  gemman 
who  behaves  most  like  a  gemman." 

Here  a  loud  halloo  was  heard  close  by  the  horses'  heads. 

"  Good  heavens,  if  that  is  a  footpad ! "  said  Mr.  Spencer, 
shaking  violently. 

"Lord,  sir,  I  have  my  barkers  with  me.     Who  's  there?" 

The  barouche  stopped;  a  man  came  to  the  window. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  stranger;  " but  there  is  a  poor 
boy  here  so  tired  and  ill  that  I  fear  he  will  never  reach  the 
next  town,  unless  you  will  koindly  give  him  a  lift." 

"A  poor  boy!  "  said  Mr.  Spencer,  poking  his  head  over  the 
head  of  Mr.  Sharp.     "Where?" 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  177 

"If  you  would  just  drop  him  at  the  King's  Awrms  it  would 
be  a  chaurity,"  said  the  man. 

Sharp  pinched  Mr.  Spencer  in  the  shoulder.  "That's 
Dashing  Jerry;  I'll  get  out."  So  saying,  he  opened  the 
door,  jumped  into  the  road,  and  presently  reappeared  with 
the  lost  and  welcome  Sidney  in  his  arms.  "  Be  n't  this  the 
boy?"  he  whispered  to  Mr.  Spencer;  and  taking  the  lamp 
from  the  carriage,  he  raised  it  to  the  child's  face. 

"It  is!  it  is!  God  be  thanked!"  exclaimed  the  worthy 
man. 

"Will  you  leare  him  at  the  King's  Awrms?  We  shall  be 
there  in  an  hour  or  two,"  cried  the  Captain. 

"AYe!     ^Yho's  we?"  said  Sharp,  gruffly. 

"Why,  myself  and  the  choild's  brother." 

"Oh!"  said  Sharp,  raising  the  lantern  to  his  own  face; 
"you  knows  me,  I  think.  Master  Jerry?  Let  me  kitch  you 
agin,  that 's  all.  And  give  my  compliments  to  your  'sociate, 
and  say,  if  he  prosecutes  this  here  hurchin  any  more,  we  '11 
settle  his  bizness  for  him;  and  so  take  a  hint  and  make  your- 
self scarce,  old  boy !  " 

With  that  Mr.  Sharp  jumped  into  the  barouche,  and  bade 
the  postboy  drive  on  as  fast  as  he  could. 

Ten  minutes  after  this  abduction,  Philip,  followed  by  two 
labourers,  with  a  barrow,  a  lantern,  and  two  blankets,  returned 
from  the  hospitable  farm  to  which  the  light  had  conducted 
him.  The  spot  where  he  had  left  Sidney,  and  which  he  knew 
by  a  neighbouring  milestone,  was  vacant ;  he  shouted  an  alarm, 
and  the  Captain  answered  from  the  distance  of  some  three- 
score yards.     Philip  came  to  him.     "Where  is  my  brother? " 

"  Gone  away  in  a  barouche  and  pair.  Devil  take  me  if  I 
understand  it."  And  the  Captain  proceeded  to  give  a  con- 
fused account  of  what  had  passed. 

"My  brother!  my  brother!  they  have  torn  thee  from  me, 
then!  "    cried  Philip,  and  he  fell  to  the  earth  insensible. 


12 


178  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Voua  me  rendrez  mon  f rere !  ^ 

Casimer  Delavigne  :  Les  En/ants  (TEdouard. 

One  evening,  a  week  after  this  event,  a  wild,  tattered, 
haggard  youth  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort. 

The  porter  slowly  presented  himself. 

"Is  your  master  at  home?    I  must  see  him  instantly." 

"That's  more  than  you  can,  my  man;  my  master  does  not 
see  the  like  of  you  at  this  time  of  night,"  replied  the  porter, 
eying  the  ragged  apparition  before  him  with  great  disdain. 

"See  me  he  must  and  shall,"  replied  the  young  man;  and 
as  the  porter  blocked  up  the  entrance,  he  grasped  his  collar 
with  a  hand  of  iron,  swung  him,  huge  as  he  was,  aside,  and 
strode  into  the  spacious  hall. 

"Stop!  stop!"  cried  the  porter,  recovering  himself. 
"James!   John!   here's  a  go!" 

Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  had  been  back  in  town  several  days. 
Mrs.  Beaufort,  who  was  waiting  his  return  from  his  club,  was 
in  the  dining-room.  Hearing  a  noise  in  the  hall,  she  opened 
the  door,  and  saw  the  strange  grim  figure  I  have  described, 
advancing  towards  her.  "Who  are  you?"  said  she;  "and 
what  do  you  want?" 

"  I  am  Philip  Morton.     Who  are  you?  " 

"My  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort,  shrinking  into  the 
parlour,  while  Morton  followed  her  and  closed  the  door,  "  my 
husband,  Mr.  Beaufort,  is  not  at  home." 

"You  are  Mrs.  Beaufort,  then!  Well,  you  can  understand 
me.  I  want  my  brother.  He  has  been  basely  reft  from  me. 
Tell  me  where  he  is,  and  I  will  forgive  all.  Restore  him  to 
me,  and  I  will  bless  you  and  yours,"  And  Philip  fell  on  his 
knees  and  grasped  the  train  of  her  gown. 

1  "  You  shall  restore  me  my  brother  1 " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  179 

"I  know  nothing  rf  your  brother,  Mr.  Morton,"  cried  Mrs. 
Beaufort,  surprised  and  alarmed.  "  Arthur,  whom  we  expect 
every  day,  writes  us  word  that  all  search  for  him  has  been  in 
vain." 

"Ha!  you  admit  the  search?"  cried  Morton,  rising  and 
clenching  his  hands.  "  And  who  else  but  you  or  yours  would 
have  parted  brother  and  brother?  Answer  me  where  he  is. 
Ko  subterfuge,  madam ;  I  am  desperate !  " 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  though  a  woman  of  that  worldly  coldness 
and  indifference  which  on  ordinary  occasions  supply  the  place 
of  courage,  was  extremely  terrified  by  the  tone  and  mien  of 
her  rude  guest.  She  laid  her  hand  on  the  bell ;  but  Morton 
seized  her  arm,  and  holding  it  sternly  said,  while  his  dark 
eyes  shot  fire  through  the  glimmering  room,  "  I  will  not  stir 
hence  till  you  have  told  me.  Will  you  reject  my  gratitude, 
my  blessing?  Beware!  Again,  where  have  you  hid  my 
brother?" 

At  that  instant  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort 
entered.  The  lady,  with  a  shriek  of  joy,  wrenched  herself 
from  Philip's  grasp,  and  flew  to  her  husband. 

"  Save  me  from  this  ruffian !  "  she  said,  with  an  hysterical 
sob. 

Mr.  Beaufort,  who  had  heard  from  Blackwell  strange 
accounts  of  Philip's  obdurate  perverseness,  vile  associates, 
and  unredeemable  character,  was  roused  from  his  usual  tim- 
idity by  the  appeal  of  his  wife. 

"  Insolent  reprobate !  "  he  said,  advancing  to  Philip ;  "  after 
all  the  absurd  goodness  of  my  son  and  myself;  after  rejecting 
all  our  offers,  and  persisting  in  your  miserable  and  vicious 
conduct,  how  dare  you  presume  to  force  yourself  into  this 
house?  Begone,  or  I  will  send  for  the  constables  to  remove 
you!" 

"Man,  man,"  cried  Philip,  restraining  the  fury  that  shook 
him  from  head  to  foot,  "  I  care  not  for  your  threats,  I  scarcely 
hear  your  abuse.  Your  son  or  yourself  has  stolen  away  my 
brother.  Tell  me  only  where  he  is;  let  me  see  him  once 
more.  Do  not  drive  me  hence,  without  one  word  of  justice, 
of  pity.     I  implore  3'ou,  on  my  knees  I  implore  3'ou,  yes,  I,  I 


180  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

implore  you,  Eobert  Beaufort,  to  have  mercy  on  your  brother's 
son.    Where  is  Sidney?" 

Like  all  mean  and  cowardly  men,  Eobert  Beaufort  was 
rather  encouraged  than  softened  by  Philip's  abrupt  humility. 

"I  know  nothing  of  your  brother;  and  if  this  is  not  all 
some  villanous  trick  —  which  it  may  be  —  I  am  heartily 
rejoiced  that  he,  poor  child!  is  rescued  from  the  contami- 
nation of  such  a  companion,"  answered  Beaufort. 

"I  am  at  your  feet  still;  again,  for  the  last  time,  clinging 
to  you  a  suppliant,  I  pray  you  to  tell  me  the  truth." 

Mr.  Beaufort,  more  and  more  exasperated  by  Morton's 
forbearance,  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  strike;  when,  at  that 
moment,  one  hitherto  unobserved,  one  who,  terrified  by  the 
scene  she  had  witnessed  but  could  not  comprehend,  had  slunk 
into  a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  now  came  from  her  retreat. 
And  a  child's  soft  voice  was  heard,  saying,  — 

"  Do  not  strike  him.  Papa !  let  him  have  his  brother !  " 

Mr.  Beaufort's  arm  fell  to  his  side.  Kneeling  before  him, 
and  by  the  outcast's  side,  was  his  own  young  daughter;  she 
had  crept  into  the  room  unobserved  when  her  father  entered. 
Through  the  dim  shadows,  relieved  only  by  the  red  and  fitful 
gleam  of  the  fire,  he  saw  her  fair  meek  face  looking  up  wist- 
fully at  his  own,  with  tears  of  excitement,  and  perhaps  of 
pity  —  for  children  have  a  quick  insight  into  the  reality  of 
grief  in  those  not  far  removed  from  their  own  3'ears  —  glis- 
tening in  her  soft  eyes.  Philip  looked  round  bewildered,  and 
he  saw  that  face  which  seemed  to  him,  at  such  a  time,  like 
the  face  of  an  angel. 

"  Hear  her !  "  he  murmured ;  "  oh,  hear  her !  For  her  sake, 
do  not  sever  one  orphan  from  the  other !  " 

"Take  away  that  child,  Mrs.  Beaufort,"  cried  Eobert, 
angrily.  "Will  you  let  her  disgrace  herself  thus?  And 
you,  sir,  begone  from  this  roof;  and  when  you  can  approach 
me  with  due  respect,  I  will  give  you,  as  I  said  I  would,  the 
means  to  get  an  honest  living." 

Philip  rose ;  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  already  led  away  her  daugh- 
ter, and  she  took  that  opportunity  of  sending  in  the  servants. 
Their  forms  filled  up  the  doorway. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  181 

"Will  you  go?"  continued  Mr.  Beaufort,  more  and  more 
emboldened,  as  he  saw  the  menials  at  hand,  "or  shall  theu 
expel  you?  " 

"It  is  enough,  sir,"  said  Philip,  with  a  sudden  calm  and 
dignity  that  surprised  and  almost  awed  his  uncle.  "My 
father,  if  the  dead  yet  watch  over  the  living,  has  seen  and 
heard  you.  There  will  come  a  day  for  justice.  Out  of  my 
path,  hirelings!  " 

He  waved  his  arm,  and  the  menials  shrank  back  at  his 
tread,  stalked  across  the  inhospitable  hall,  and  vanished. 

When  he  had  gained  the  street,  he  turned  and  looked  up  at 
the  house.  His  dark  and  hollow  eyes,  gleaming  through  the 
long  and  raven  hair  that  fell  profusely  over  his  face,  had  in 
them  an  expression  of  menace  almost  preternatural,  from  its 
settled  calmness.  The  wild  and  untutored  majesty  which 
through  rags  and  squalor  never  deserted  his  form,  as  it  never 
does  the  forms  of  men  in  whom  the  will  is  strong  and  the 
sense  of  injustice  deep;  the  outstretched  arm;  the  haggard, 
but  noble  features ;  the  bloomless  and  scathed  youth,  —  all 
gave  to  his  features  and  his  stature  an  aspect  awful  in  its 
sinister  and  voiceless  wrath.  There  he  stood  a  moment,  like 
one  to  whom  woe  and  wrong  have  given  a  Prophet's  power, 
guiding  the  eye  of  the  unforgetful  Fate  to  the  rcof  of  the 
Oppressor.  Then  slowly,  and  with  a  half  smile,  he  turned 
away,  and  strode  through  the  streets  till  he  arrived  at  one  of 
the  narrow  lanes  that  intersect  the  more  equivocal  quarters  of 
the  huge  city.  He  stopped  at  the  private  entrance  of  a  small 
pawnbroker's  shop.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  slipshod  boy; 
he  ascended  the  dingy  stairs  till  he  came  to  the  second  floor; 
and  there,  in  a  small  back  room,  he  found  Captain  de  Burgh 
Smith,  seated  before  a  table  with  a  couple  of  candles  on  it, 
smoking  a  cigar,  and  playing  at  cards  by  himself. 

"Well,  what  news  of  your  brother.  Bully  Phil?" 

"None;  they  will  reveal  nothing." 

"  Do  you  give  him  up?  " 

"Never!     My  hope  now  is  in  you." 

"  Well,  T  thought  you  would  be  driven  to  come  to  me,  and 
I  will  do  something  for  you  that  I  should  not  loike  to  do  for 


182  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

myself.  I  told  you  that  I  knew  the  Bow  Street  runner  who 
was  in  the  barouche.  I  will  find  him  out,  —  Heaven  knows 
that  is  easily  done;  and  if  you  can  pay  well,  you  will  get 
your  news." 

"  You  shall  have  all  I  possess,  if  you  restore  my  brother. 
See  what  it  iSj  £100,  —  it  was  his  fortune.  It  is  useless  to 
me  without  him.     There,  take  fifty  now,  and  if  —  " 

Philip  stopped,  for  his  voice  trembled  too  much  to  allow 
hira  further  speech.  Captain  Smith  thrust  the  notes  into  his 
pocket,  and  said,  — 

"We'll  consider  it  settled." 

Captain  Smith  fulfilled  his  promise.  He  saw  the  Bow 
Street  officer.  Mr.  Sharp  had  been  bribed  too  high  by  the 
opposite  party  to  tell  tales,  and  he  willingly  encouraged  the 
suspicion  that  Sidney  was  under  the  care  of  the  Beauforts. 
He  promised,  however,  for  the  sake  of  ten  guineas,  to  procure 
Philip  a  letter  from  Sidney  himself.  This  was  all  he  would 
undertake. 

Philip  was  satisfied.  At  the  end  of  another  week,  Mr. 
Sharp  transmitted  to  the  Captain  a  letter,  which  he,  in  his 
turn,  gave  to  Philip.  It  ran  thus,  in  Sidney's  own  sprawling 
hand : — 

Dear  Brother  Philip,  —  T  am  told  you  wish  to  know  how  I  am, 
and  therfore  take  up  my  pen,  and  assure  you  that  1  write  all  out  of  my 
own  head.  I  am  very  Comfortable  and  happy,  —  much  more  so  than  I 
have  been  since  poor  deir  mama  died  ;  so  I  beg  you  won't  vex  yourself 
about  me  ;  and  pray  don't  try  and  Find  me  out.  For  I  would  not  go  with 
you  again  for  the  world.  I  am  so  much  better  Off  here.  I  wish  you 
would  be  a  good  boy,  and  leave  off  your  Bad  ways:  for  I  am  sure,  as 
every  one  says,  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of  me  if  I  had 

staid  with  you.     Mr. [the  Mr.  half  scratched  out]  the  gentleman 

I  am  with,  says  if  you  turn  out  Properly  he  will  lie  a  friend  to  you,  Too; 
but  he  advises  you  to  go,  like  a  Good  boy,  to  Artliur  Beaufort,  and  ask 
his  pardon  for  the  past,  and  then  Arthur  will  he  very  kind  to  you.  I  send 
you  a  great  Big  sum  of  £20,  and  the  gentleman  says  he  would  send  more, 
only  it  might  make  you  naughty,  and  set  up.  I  go  to  church  now  every 
Sunday,  and  read  good  books,  and  always  pray  that  God  may  open  your 
eyes.  I  have  such  a  Nice  Pony,  with  such  a  long  tale.  So  no  more  at 
present  from  your  affectionate  brother, 

Sidney  Morton. 
Oct.  8,  18  —  . 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  183 

Praj-,  pray  don't  come  after  me  Any  more.  You  know  I  neerly  died 
ot  it,  but  for  tliis  deir  good  gentleman  I  am  with. 

So  this,  then,  was  the  crowning  reward  of  all  his  sufferings 
and  all  his  love!  There  was  the  letter,  evidently  undictated, 
with  its  errors  of  orthography,  and  in  the  child's  rough  scrawl; 
the  serpent's  tooth  pierced  to  the  heart,  and  left  there  its  most 
lasting  venom. 

"1  have  done  with  him  forever,"  said  Philip,  brushing 
away  the  bitter  tears.  "I  will  molest  him  no  further;  I  care 
no  more  to  pierce  this  mystery.  Better  for  him  as  it  is,  — 
he  is  happy!  Well,  well,  and  I  —  /  will  never  care  for  a 
human  being  again." 

He  bowed  his  head  over  his  hands;  and  when  he  rose,  his 
heart  felt  to  him  like  stone.  It  seemed  as  if  Conscience  her- 
self had  fled  from  his  soul  on  the  wings  of  departed  Love. 


CHAPTEE  XII, 

But  you  have  found  tiie  mountniu's  top,  —  tliere  sit 
On  the  calm  flourishing  head  of  it ; 
And  whilst  with  wearied  steps  we  upward  go, 
See  us  and  clouds  below.  —  Cowley. 

It  was  true  that  Sidney  was  happy  in  his  new  home,  and 
thither  we  must  now  trace  him. 

On  reaching  the  town  where  the  travellers  in  the  barouche 
had  been  requested  to  leave  Sidney,  The  King's  Arms  was 
precisely  the  inn  eschewed  by  Mr.  Spencer.  While  the  horses 
were  being  changed,  he  summoned  the  surgeon  of  the  town  to 
examine  the  child,  who  had  already  much  recovered;  and  by 
stripping  his  clothes,  wrapping  him  in  warm  blankets,  and 
administering  cordials,  he  was  permitted  to  reach  another 
stage,  so  as  to  baffle  pursuit  that  night;  and  in  three  days 
Mr.  Spencer  had  placed  his  new  charge  with  his  maiden  sis- 


184  KIGHT  AXD  MORNIXG. 

ters,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  the  spot  where  he  had 
been  found.  He  would  not  take  him  to  his  own  home  yet. 
He  feared  the  claims  of  Arthur  Beaufort.  He  artfully  wrote 
to  that  gentleman,  stating  that  he  had  abandoned  the  chase  of 
Sidney  in  despair,  and  desiring  to  know  if  he  had  discovered 
him;  and  a  bribe  of  £300  to  Mr.  Sharp  with  a  candid  exposi- 
tion of  his  reasons  for  secreting  Sidney  —  reasons  in  which 
the  worthy  ofl&cer  professed  to  sympathize  —  secured  the  dis- 
cretion of  his  ally.  But  he  would  not  deny  himself  the  pleas- 
ure of  being  in  the  same  house  with  Sidney,  and  was  therefore 
for  some  months  the  guest  of  his  sisters.  At  length  he  heard 
that  young  Beaufort  had  been  ordered  abroad  for  his  health, 
and  he  then  deemed  it  safe  to  transfer  his  new  idol  to  his 
Lares  by  the  Lakes.  During  this  interval  the  current  of  the 
younger  Morton's  life  had  indeed  flowed  through  flowers.  At 
his  age  the  cares  of  females  were  almost  a  want  as  well  as  a 
luxury,  and  the  sisters  spoiled  and  petted  him  as  much  as 
any  elderly  nymphs  in  Cytherea  ever  petted  Cupid.  They 
were  good,  excellent,  high-nosed,  flat-bosomed  spinsters,  sen- 
timentally fond  of  their  brother,  whom  they  called  "the  poet," 
and  dotingly  attached  to  children.  The  cleanness,  the  quiet, 
the  good  cheer  of  their  neat  abode,  all  tended  to  revive  and 
invigorate  the  spirits  of  their  young  guest,  and  every  one 
there  seemed  to  vie  which  should  love  him  the  most.  Still 
his  especial  favourite  was  Mr.  Spencer,  —  for  Spencer  never 
went  out  without  bringing  back  cakes  and  toys ;  and  Spencer 
gave  him  his  pony;  and  Spencer  rode  a  little  crop-eared  nag 
by  his  side;  and  Spencer,  in  short,  was  associated  with  his 
every  comfort  and  caprice.  He  told  them  his  little  history; 
and  when  he  said  how  Philip  had  left  him  alone  for  long  hours 
together,  and  how  Philip  had  forced  him  to  his  last  and  nearly 
fatal  journey,  the  old  maids  groaned  and  the  old  bachelor 
sighed,  and  they  all  cried  in  a  breath  that  Philip  was  a 
very  wicked  boy.  It  was  not  only  their  obvious  policy  t-o 
detach  him  from  his  brother,  but  it  was  their  sincere  cunvic- 
tion  that  they  did  right  to  do  so.  Sidney  began,  it  is  true,  by 
taking  Philip's  part;  but  his  mind  was  ductile,  and  he  still 
looked  back  with  a  shudder  to  the  hardships  he  had  gone 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  185 

through.  And  so  by  little  and  little  he  learned  to  forget  all 
the  endearing  and  fostering  love  Philip  had  evinced  to  him, 
to  connect  his  name  with  dark  and  mysterious  fears,  to  repeat 
thanksgivings  to  Providence  that  he  was  saved  from  him,  and 
to  hope  that  they  might  never  meet  again.  In  fact,  when  Mr. 
Spencer  learned  from  Sharp  that  it  was  through  Captain 
Smith,  the  swindler,  that  application  had  been  made  by 
Philip  for  news  of  his  brother,  and  having  also  learned  before 
from  the  same  person  that  Philip  had  been  implicated  in  the 
sale  of  a  horse,  swindled,  if  not  stolen,  — he  saw  every  addi- 
tional reason  to  widen  the  stream  that  flowed  between  the 
wolf  and  the  lamb.  The  older  Sidney  grew,  the  better  he 
comprehended  and  appreciated  the  motives  of  his  protector; 
for  he  was  brought  up  in  a  formal  school  of  propriety  and 
ethics,  and  his  mind  naturally  revolted  from  all  images  of 
violence  or  fraud.  Mr.  Spencer  changed  both  the  Chris- 
tian and  the  surname  of  his  i:)roUg^,  in  order  to  elude  the 
search  whether  of  Philip,  the  Mortons,  or  the  Beauforts,  and 
Sidney  passed  for  his  nephew  by  a  younger  brother  who  had 
died  in  India. 

So  there,  by  the  calm  banks  of  the  placid  lake,  amidst  the 
fairest  landscapes  of  the  Island  Garden,  the  youngest  born  of 
Catherine  passed  his  tranquil  days.  The  monotony  of  the 
retreat  did  not  fatigue  a  spirit  which,  as  he  grew  up,  found 
occupation  in  books,  music,  poetry,  and  the  elegances  of  the 
cultivated,  if  quiet,  life  within  his  reach.  To  the  rough  past 
he  looked  back  as  to  an  evil  dream,  in  which  the  image  of 
Philip  stood  dark  and  threatening.  His  brother's  name  as  he 
grew  older  he  rarely  mentioned;  and  if  he  did  volunteer  it  to 
Mr.  Spencer,  the  bloom  on  his  cheek  grew  paler.  The  sweet- 
ness of  his  manners,  his  fair  face  and  winning  smile,  still 
continued  to  secure  him  love,  and  to  screen  from  the  common 
eye  whatever  of  selfishness  yet  lurked  in  his  nature;  and, 
indeed,  that  fault  in  so  serene  a  career,  and  with  friends  so 
attached,  was  seldom  called  into  action.  So  thus  was  he 
severed  from  both  the  protectors,  Arthur  and  Philip,  to 
whom  poor  Catherine  had  bequeathed  him. 

By  a  perverse  and  strange  mystery,  they  to  whom  the  charge 


186  NIGHT  AND  MOKNING. 

was  most  intrusted  were  the  very  persons  wlio  were  forbidden 
to  redeem  it.  On  our  death-beds  when  we  think  we  have  pro- 
vided for  those  we  leave  behind,  should  we  lose  the  last  smile 
that  gilds  the  solemn  agony,  if  we  could  look  one  year  into 
the  Future? 

Arthur  Beaufort,  after  an  ineffectual  search  for  Sidney, 
heard  on  returning  to  his  home  no  unexaggerated  narrative 
of  Philip's  visit,  and  listened  with  deep  resentment  to  his 
mother's  distorted  account  of  the  language  addressed  to  her. 
It  is  not  to  be  surprised  that,  with  all  his  romantic  generos- 
ity, he  felt  sickened  and  revolted  at  violence  that  seemed  to 
him  without  excuse.  Though  not  a  revengeful  character,  he 
had  not  that  meekness  which  never  resents.  He  looked  upon 
Philip  Morton  as  upon  one  rendered  incorrigible  by  bad  pas- 
sions and  evil  company.  Still,  Catherine's  last  bequest,  and 
Philip's  note  to  him  the  Unknown  Comforter,  often  recurred 
to  him,  and  he  would  have  willingly  yet  aided  him  had  Philip 
been  thrown  in  his  way.  But  as  it  was,  when  he  looked 
around  and  saw  the  examples  of  that  charity  that  begins  at 
home,  in  which  the  world  abounds,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  done 
his  duty;  and  prosperity  having,  though  it  could  not  harden 
his  heart,  still  sapped  the  habits  of  perseverance,  so  by  little 
and  little  the  image  of  the  dying  Catherine  and  the  thought  of 
her  sons  faded  from  his  remembrance.  And  for  this  there  was 
the  more  excuse  after  the  receipt  of  an  anonymous  letter,  which 
relieved  all  his  apprehensions  on  behalf  of  Sidney,  The  letter 
was  short,  and  stated  simply  that  Sidney  Morton  had  found  a 
friend  who  would  protect  him  throughout  life,  but  who  would 
not  scruple  to  apply  to  Beaufort  if  ever  he  needed  his  assist- 
ance. So  one  son,  and  that  the  youngest  and  the  best-loved, 
was  safe.  And  the  other,  had  he  not  chosen  his  own  career? 
Alas,  poor  Catherine !  when  you  fancied  that  Philip  was  the 
one  sure  to  force  his  way  into  fortune  and  Sidney  the  one  most 
helpless,  how  ill  did  you  judge  of  the  human  heart!  It  was 
that  very  strength  of  Philip's  nature  which  tempted  the  winds 
that  scattered  the  blossoms,  and  shook  the  stem  to  its  roots ; 
while  the  lighter  and  frailer  nature  bent  to  the  gale,  and  bore 
transplanting  to  a  happier  soil.     If  a  parent  read  these  pages, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  187 

let  him  pause  and  think  well  on  the  characters  of  his  children  j 
let  him  at  once  fear  and  hope  the  most  for  the  one  whose  pas- 
sions and  whose  temper  lead  to  a  struggle  with  the  world. 
That  same  world  is  a  tough  wrestler,  and  has  a  bear's  gripe. 

Meanwhile,  Arthur  Beaufort's  own  complaints,  which  grew 
serious,  and  menaced  consumption,  recalled  his  thoughts  more 
and  more  every  day  to  himself.  He  was  compelled  to  aban- 
don his  career  at  the  University,  and  to  seek  for  health  in  the 
softer  breezes  of  the  South.  His  parents  accompanied  him  to 
Nice;  and  when,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  he  was  restored 
to  health,  the  desire  of  travel  seized  the  mind  and  attracted 
the  fancy  of  the  young  heir.  His  father  and  mother,  satisfied 
with  his  recovery,  and  not  unwilling  that  he  should  acquire 
the  polish  of  Continental  intercourse,  returned  to  England; 
and  young  Beaufort,  with  gay  companions  and  munificent 
income,  already  courted,  spoiled,  and  flattered,  commenced 
his  tour  with  the  fair  climes  of  Italy. 

So,  0  dark  mystery  of  the  Moral  World !  so,  unlike  the  order 
of  the  External  Universe,  glide  together,  side  by  side,  the 
shadowy  steeds  of  Night  and  Morning.  Examine  life  in 
its  own  world;  confound  not  that  world,  the  inner  one,  the 
practical  one,  with  the  more  visible,  yet  airier  and  less  sub- 
stantial system,  doing  homage  to  the  sun,  to  whose  throne, 
afar  in  the  infinite  space,  the  human  heart  has  no  wings  to 
flee.  In  life,  the  mind  and  the  circumstance  give  the  true 
seasons,  and  regulate  the  darkness  and  the  light.  Of  two  men 
standing  on  the  same  foot  of  earth,  the  one  revels  in  the  joy- 
ous noon,  the  other  shudders  in  the  solitude  of  night.  For 
Hope  and  Fortune  the  daystar  is  ever  shining;  for  Care  and 
Penury,  Night  changes  not  with  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  nor 
with  the  shadow  on  the  dial.  Morning  for  the  heir,  night  for 
the  houseless,  and  God's  eye  over  both. 


BOOK    III. 


SSerge  lagen  mir  im  SISegc, 

©trome  f)cmntten  utcinen  gufe: 
Ucbcr  Sc^lunbe  bout'  i^  Stcgc, 

jyrudEen  burd^  ben  iDilbcn  ^Jlu^. 

SciiiLLEK :  Z>er  Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  knight  of  arts  and  industry, 
And  his  achievements  fair. 

Thomson:   Castle  of  Indolence. 

In  a  popular  and  respectable  but  not  very  fashionable 
quartier  in  Paris,  and  in  the  tolerably  broad  and  effective 

locale  of  the  Rue ,  there  might  be  seen,  at  the  time  I  now 

treat  of,  a  curious-looking  building,  that  jutted  out  semicircu- 
larly  from  the  neighbouring  shops,  with  plaster  pilasters  and 
compo  ornaments.  The  virtuosi  of  the  quartier  had  discov- 
ered that  the  building  was  constructed  in  imitation  of  an 
ancient  temple  in  Rome;  this  erection,  then  fresh  and  new, 
reached  only  to  the  entresol.  The  pilasters  were  painted  light 
green  and  gilded  in  the  cornices,  while,  surmounting  the  arch- 
itrave, were  three  little  statues.  One  held  a  torch,  another 
a  bow,  and  a  third  a  bag;  they  were  therefore  rumoured,  I 
know  not  with  what  justice,  to  be  the  artistical  representa- 
tives of  Hymen,  Cupid,  and  Fortune. 

On  the  door  was  neatly  engraved,  on  a  brass  plate,  the  fol- 
lowing inscription :  — 

Monsieur  Love,  Anglais, 
X  l'entkesol. 

And  if  you  had  crossed  the  threshold  and  mounted  the  stairs, 
and  gained  that  mysterious   story  inhabited  by  M.    Love, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  189 

you  would  liave  seen,  upon  another  door  to  the  right,  another 
epigraph,  informing  those  interested  in  the  inquiry  that  the 
bureau  of  M.  Love  was  open  daily  from  nine  in  the  morning 
to  four  in  the  afternoon. 

The  office  of  M,  Love  —  for  office  it  was,  and  of  a  nature  not 
unfrequently  designated  in  the  "  pet  lies  affiches^'  of  Paris  — 
had  been  established  about  six  months;  and  whether  it  was 
the  popularity  of  the  profession  or  the  shape  of  the  shop  or 
the  manners  of  M.  Love  himself,  I  cannot  pretend  to  say,  but 
certain  it  is  that  the  Temple  of  Hymen  —  as  M.  Love  classi- 
cally termed  it  —  had  become  exceedingly  in  vogue   in  the 

Faubourg  St. .     It  was  rumoured  that  no  less  than  nine 

marriages  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  had  been  manu- 
factured at  this  fortunate  office,  and  that  they  had  all  turned 
out  happily,  — except  one,  in  which  the  bride  being  sixty  and 
the  bridegroom  twenty-four  there  had  been  rumours  of  domes- 
tic dissension;  but  as  the  lady  had  been  delivered, — I  mean 
of  her  husband,  who  had  drowned  himself  in  the  Seine  about 
a  month  after  the  ceremony,  —  things  had  turned  out  in  the 
long  run  better  than  might  have  been  expected;  and  the 
widow  was  so  little  discouraged,  that  she  had  been  seen  to 
enter  the  oiSce  already,  —  a  circumstance  that  was  greatly  to 
the  credit  of  Mr.  Love. 

Perhaps  the  secret  of  Mr.  Love's  success,  and  of  the  marked 
superiority  of  his  establishment  in  rank  and  popularity  over 
similar  ones,  consisted  in  the  spirit  and  liberality  with  which 
the  business  was  conducted.  He  seemed  resolved  to  destroy 
all  formality  between  parties  who  might  desire  to  draw  closer 
to  each  other,  and  he  hit  upon  the  lucky  device  of  a  table 
d'  hote,  very  well  managed  and  held  twice  a  week,  and  often 
followed  by  a  soiree  ckmsante ;  so  that,  if  they  pleased,  the 
aspirants  to  matrimonial  happiness  might  become  acquainted 
without  r/ene.  As  he  himself  was  a  jolly,  convivial  fellow  of 
much  savoir  vivre,  it  is  astonishing  how  well  he  made  these 
entertainments  answer.  Persons  who  had  not  seemed  to  take 
to  each  other  in  the  first  distant  interview  grew  extremely 
enamoured  when  the  corks  of  the  champagne  —  an  extra  of 
course  in  the  aboyinement  —  bounced  against  the  wall.     Added 


190  XIGIIT  AND  MORXING. 

to  this,  Mr.  Love  took  great  pains  to  know  the  tradesmen  in 
his  neighbourhood;  and  what  with  his  jokes,  his  appearance 
of  easy  circumstances,  and  the  fluency  with  which  he  spoke 
the  language,  he  became  a  universal  favourite.  Many  per- 
sons who  were  uncommonly  starched  in  general,  fend  who  pro- 
fessed to  ridicule  the  bureau,  saw  nothing  improper  in  dining 
at  the  table  cVhote.  To  those  who  wished  for  secrecy  he  was 
said  to  be  wonderfully  discreet;  but  there  were  others  who 
did  not  affect  to  conceal  their  discontent  at  the  single  state. 
For  the  rest,  the  entertainments  were  so  contrived  -as  never  to 
shock  the  delicacy,  while  they  always  forwarded  the  suit. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  Mr.  Love 
was  still  seated  at  dinner,  or  rather  at  dessert,  with  a  party 
of  guests.  His  apartments,  though  small,  were  somewhat 
gaudily  painted  and  furnished,  and  his  dining-room  was 
decorated  a  la  Turque.  The  party  consisted  —  first,  of  a 
rich  epicier,  a  widower,  M.  Goupille  by  name,  an  eminent 
man  in  the  Faubourg;  he  was  in  his  grand  climacteric,  but 
still  belhomme;  wore  a  very  well-made ^ej^wg-tze  of  light  auburn, 
with  tight  pantaloons,  which  contained  a  pair  of  very  respect- 
able calves ;  and  his  white  neckcloth  and  his  large  frill  were 
washed  and  got  up  with  especial  care.  Next  to  M.  Gou- 
pille sat  a  very  demure  and  very  spare  young  lady  of  about 
two-and -thirty,  who  was  said  to  have  saved  a  fortune  — 
Heaven  knows  how!  —  in  the  family  of  a  rich  English 
milord,  where  she  had  officiated  as  governess;  she  called 
herself  Mademoiselle  Adele  de  Courval,  and  was  very  par- 
ticular about  the  de,  and  very  melancholy  about  her  ances- 
tors. M.  Goupille  generally  put  his  finger  through  his 
peruque,  and  fell  away  a  little  on  his  left  pantaloon  when 
he  spoke  to  Mademoiselle  de  Courval,  and  Mademoiselle  de 
Courval  generally  pecked  at  her  bouquet  when  she  answered 
M.  Goupille.  On  the  other  side  of  this  young  lady  sat 
a  fine-looking  fair  man,  —  M.  Sovolof ski,  a  Pole,  buttoned  up 
to  the  chin,  and  rather  threadbare,  though  uncommonly  neat. 
He  was  flanked  by  a  little  fat  lady,  who  had  been  very  pretty, 
and  who  kept  a  boarding-house,  or  pension,  for  the  English, 
she  herself  being  English,  though  long  established  in  Paris. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  191 

Eumour  said  she  had  been  gay  in  her  youth,  and  dropped 
in  Paris  by  a  Eussian  nobleman,  with  a  very  pretty  settle- 
ment, —  she  and  the  settlement  having  equally  expanded  by 
time  and  season:  she  was  called  Madame  Beavor.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  table  was  a  red-headed  Englishman,  who 
spoke  very  little  French ;  who  had  been  told  that  French  ladies 
were  passionately  fond  of  light  hair;  and  who,  having  £2,000 
of  his  own,  intended  to  quadruple  that  sum  by  a  jirudent  mar- 
riage. Nobody  knew  what  his  family  was,  but  his  name  was 
Higgins.  His  neighbour  was  an  exceedingly  tall,  large-boned 
Frenchman,  with  a  long  nose  and  a  red  ribbon,  who  was  much 
seen  at  Frascati's,  and  had  served  under  Napoleon.  Then 
came  another  lady,  extremely  pretty,  very  lyhiuante,  and  very 
gay,  but  past  the  j^rermere  Jeu7ie.<sse,  who  ogled  Mr,  Love  more 
than  she  did  any  of  his  guests:  she  was  called  Rosalie  Cau- 
martin,  and  was  at  the  head  of  a  large  bon-bon  establishment; 
married,  but  her  husband  had  gone  four  years  ago  to  the  Isle 
of  France,  and  she  was  a  little  doubtful  whether  she  might 
not  be  justly  entitled  to  the  privileges  of  a  widow.  Next  to 
Mr.  Love,  in  the  place  of  honour,  sat  no  less  a  person  than 
the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont,  a  French  gentleman,  really  well- 
born, but  whose  various  excesses,  added  to  his  poverty,  had 
not  served  to  sustain  that  respect  for  his  birth  which  he  con- 
sidered due  to  it.  He  had  already  been  twice  married ;  once 
to  an  Englishwoman,  who  had  been  decoyed  by  the  title.  By 
this  lady,  who  died  in'childbed,  he  had  one  son,  —  a  fact  which 
he  sedulously  concealed  from  the  world  of  Paris  by  keeping 
the  unhappy  boy,  who  was  now  some  eighteen  or  nineteen 
years  old,  a  perpetual  exile  in  England.  M.  de  Vaude- 
mont did  not  wish  to  pass  for  more  than  thirty,  and  he  con- 
sidered that  to  produce  a  son  of  eighteen  would  be  to  make 
the  lad  a  monster  of  ingratitude  by  giving  the  lie  every  hour 
to  his  own  father!  In  spite  of  this  precaution  the  Vicomte 
found  great  difficulty  in  getting  a  third  wife,  —  especially  as 
he  had  no  actual  land  and  visible  income ;  was,  not  seamed, 
but  ploughed  up,  with  the  smallpox;  small  of  stature,  and 
was  considered  more  than  un  peu  bete.  He  was,  however,  a 
prodigious  dandy,  and  wore  a  lace  frill  and  embroidered  waist- 


192  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

coat.  Mr.  Love's  vis-a-vis  was  Mr.  Birnie,  an  Englishman, 
a  sort  of  assistant  in  the  establishment,  with  a  hard,  dry, 
parchment  face,  and  —  a  remarkable  talent  for  silence.  The 
host  himself  was  a  splendid  animal;  his  vast  chest  seemed  to 
occupy  more  space  at  the  table  than  any  four  of  his  guests, 
yet  he  was  not  corpulent  or  unwieldy;  he  was  dressed  in 
black,  wore  a  velvet  stock  very  high,  and  four  gold  studs 
glittered  in  his  shirt  front;  he  was  bald  to  the  crown,  which 
made  his  forehead  appear  singularly  lofty,  and  what  hair  he 
had  left  was  a  little  grayish  and  curled;  his  face  was  shaved 
smoothly,  except  a  close-clip]3ed  mustache;  and  his  eyes, 
though  small,  were  bright  and  piercing.     Such  was  the  party. 

"These  are  the  best  lon-hons  I  ever  ate,"  said  Mr.  Love, 
glancing  at  Madame  Caumartin.  "My  fair  friends,  have 
compassion  on  the  table  of  a  poor  bachelor." 

"But  you  ought  not  to  be  a  bachelor,  Monsieur  Lofe," 
replied  the  fair  Rosalie,  with  an  arch  look;  "you  who  make 
others  marry,  should  set  the  example." 

"All  in  good  time,"  answered  Mr,  Love,  nodding;  "one 
serves  one's  customers  to  so  much  happiness  that  one  has 
none  left  for  one's  self." 

Here  a  loud  explosion  was  heard.  M.  Goupille  had  pulled 
one  of  the  bon-hon  crackers  with  Mademoiselle  Adele. 

"I've  got  the  motto!  no.  Monsieur  has  it;  I'm  always 
unlucky,"  said  the  gentle  Adele. 

The  ejncier  solemnly  unrolled  the  little  slip  of  paper;  the 
print  was  very  small,  and  he  longed  to  take  out  his  spectacles, 
but  he  thought  that  would  make  him  look  old.  However,  he 
spelled  through  the  motto  with  some  difficulty :  — 

"  Comme  elle  fait  soumettre  un  cceur, 
En  refusant  son  doux  hommage, 
On  pent  trailer  la  coquette  en  vainqueur ; 
De  la  beaute'  modeste  on  cherit  I'esclavage."  ^ 

"I  present  it  to  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  laying  the  motto 
solemnly  in  Adele's  plate,  upon  a  little  mountain  of  chestnut 
husks. 

1  "  The  coqnette  who  subjugates  a  heart,  yet  refuses  its  tender  homage, 
one  mar  treat  as  a  conqueror :  of  modest  beauty  we  cherish  the  slavery." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  193 

"It  is  very  pretty,"  said  she,  looking  down. 

"It  is  very  a  propos"  whispered  the  epicier,  caressing  the 
peruque  a  little  too  roughly  in  his  emotion.  Mr.  Love  gave 
him  a  kick  under  the  table,  and  put  his  finger  to  his  own  bald 
head,  and  then  to  his  nose,  significantly.  The  intelligent 
Spicier  smoothed  back  the  irritated  peruque. 

"Are  you  fond  of  bon-bons,  Mademoiselle  Adele?  I  have  a 
very  fine  stock  at  home,"  said  M.  Goupille. 

Mademoiselle  Adele  de  Courval  sighed.  "  Hdas  /  they 
remind  me  of  happier  days,  when  I  was  a  2>etite,  and  my 
dear  grandmamma  took  me  in  her  lap  and  told  me  how  she 
escaped  the  guillotine ;  she  was  an  hnirjree^  and  you  know  her 
father  was  a  marquis." 

The  epicier  bowed  and  looked  puzzled.  He  did  not  quite 
see  the  connection  between  the  bon-bons  and  the  guillotine. 

"You  are  triste,  Monsieur,"  observed  Madame  Beavor,  in 
rather  a  piqued  tone,  to  the  Pole,  who  had  not  said  a  word 
since  the  roti. 

"  Madame,  an  exile  is  always  triste;  I  think  of  my  pauvre 
pays." 

"  Bah !  "  cried  Mr.  Love.  "  Think  that  there  is  no  exile  by 
the  side  of  a  belle  dame." 

The  Pole  smiled  mournfully. 

"Pull  it,"  said  Madame  Beavor,  holding  a  cracker  to  the 
patriot,  and  turning  away  her  face. 

"Yes,  Madame;  I  wish  it  were  a  cannon  in  defence  of  La 
Pologne." 

With  this  magniloquent  aspiration,  the  gallant  Sovolofski 
pulled  lustily,  and  then  rubbed  his  fingers,  with  a  little  grim- 
ace, observing  that  crackers  were  sometimes  dangerous,  and 
that  the  present  combustible  was  d^une  force  immense. 

"  Hclas !   J'ai  cru  jusqu'k  ce  jour 
Pouvoir  triompher  de  I'araour,"^ 

said  Madame  Beavor,  reading  the  motto.     "  What  do  you  say 
to  that?  " 

"Madame,  there  is  no  triumph  for  La  Pologne I  " 

1  "  Alas  !  I  believed  until  to-day  that  I  could  triumph  over  love." 
13 


194  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Madame  Beavor  uttered  a  little  peevish  exclamation,  and 
glanced  in  despair  at  her  red-headed  countryman.  "  Are  you, 
too,  a  great  politician,  sir?  "  said  she  in  English. 

"No,  mem!     I  'm  all  for  the  ladies." 

"What  does  he  say?"  asked  Madame  Caumartin. 

"M.  Higgins  est  tout  pour  les  dames." 

"To  be  sure  he  is,"  cried  Mr,  Love;  "all  the  English  are, 
especially  with  that  coloured  hair;  a  lady  who  likes  a  pas- 
sionate adorer  should  always  marry  a  man  with  gold-coloured 
hair,  — always.     What  do  yoii  say.  Mademoiselle  Adele?" 

"Oh,  I  like  fair  hair,"  said  Mademoiselle,  looking  bashfully 
askew  at  M.  Goupille's  peruqtie.  "Grandmamma  said  her 
papa,  the  marquis,  used  yellow  powder:  it  must  have  been 
very  pretty." 

"Rather  a  la  sucre  d'orge,"  remarked  the  ejncier-,  smiling 
on  the  right  side  of  his  mouth,  where  his  best  teeth  were. 

Mademoiselle  de  Courval  looked  displeased.  "I  fear  you 
are  a  Republican,  Monsieur  Goupille." 

"I,  Mademoiselle.  No;  I'm  for  the  Restoration;"  and 
again  the  epicier  perplexed  himself  to  discover  the  associa- 
tion of  idea  between  republicanism  and  sucre  d^orge. 

"Another  glass  of  wine.  Come,  another,"  said  Mr.  Love, 
stretching  across  the  Vicomte  to  help  Madame  Caumartin. 

"Sir,"  said  the  tall  Frenchman  with  the  ribbon,  eying  the 
Spicier  with  great  disdain,  "you  say  you  are  for  the  Restora- 
tion, —  I  am  for  the  Empire,  moi !  " 

"No  politics!"  cried  Mr.  Love.  "Let  us  adjourn  to  the 
salony 

The  Vicomte,  who  had  seemed  supremely  ennnye  during 
this  dialogue,  plucked  Mr.  Love  by  the  sleeve  as  he  rose,  and 
whispered  petulantly,  "  I  do  not  see  any  one  here  to  suit  me. 
Monsieur  Love,  — none  of  my  rank." 

''Mon  Dieu!"  answered  Mr.  Love:  *^ point  d'' argent  point 
de  Suisse.  I  could  introduce  you  to  a  duchess,  but  then  the 
fee  is  high.  There  's  Mademoiselle  de  Courval,  —  she  dates 
from  the  Carlovingians." 

"She  is  very  like  a  boiled  sole,"  answered  the  Vicomte, 
with  a  wry  face.     "  Still  —  what  dower  has  she?  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  195 

"Forty  thousand  francs,  and  sickly,"  replied  Mr.  Love; 
"but  she  likes  a  tall  man,  and  M.  Goupille  is  —  " 

"Tall  men  are  never  well  made,"  interrupted  the  Vieomte, 
angrily;  and  he  drew  himself  aside  as  Mr.  Love,  gallantly 
advancing,  gave  his  arm  to  Madame  Beavor,  because  the  Pole 
had,  in  rising,  folded  both  his  own  arms  across  his  breast. 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Love  to  Madame  Beavor,  as 
they  adjourned  to  the  salon,  "I  don't  think  you  manage  that 
brave  man  well." 

"Ma  foi,  comme  il  est  ennuyeux  avec  sa  Pologne,"  replied 
Madame  Beavor,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  True ;  but  he  is  a  very  fine-shaped  man ;  and  it  is  a  com- 
fort to  think  that  one  will  have  no  rival  but  his  country. 
Trust  me,  and  encourage  him  a  little  more ;  I  think  he  would 
suit  you  to  a  T." 

Here  the  attendant  engaged  for  the  evening  announced 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud;  whereupon  there  entered  a 
little,  little  couple,  very  fair,  very  plump,  and  very  like  each 
other.  This  was  Mr.  Love's  show  couple,  his  decoy  ducks, 
his  last  best  example  of  match-making;  they  had  been  mar- 
ried two  months  out  of  the  bureau,  and  were  the  admiration 
of  the  neighbourhood  for  their  conjugal  affection.  As  they 
were  now  united,  they  had  ceased  to  frequent  the  table  d'hote  ; 
but  Mr.  Love  often  invited  them  after  the  dessert,  pour  encour- 
ager  les  autres. 

"My  dear  friends,"  cried  Mr.  Love,  shaking  each  by  the 

hand,  "I  am  ravished  to  see  you.     Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I 

,  present  to  you  Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud,  the  happiest 

;  couple  in  Christendom.     If  I  had  done  nothing  else  in  my 

life  but  bring  them  together  I  should  not  have  lived  in  vain!  " 

The  company  eyed  the  objects  of  this  eulogium  with  great 

attention.  ^      •  -,  •^r 

"Monsieur,  my  prayer  is  to  deserve  my  boiiheur,"  said  M. 

Giraud. 

"Cher  angef"  murmured  Madame;  and  the  happy  pair 
seated  themselves  next  to  each  other. 

Mr.  Love,  who  was  all  for  those  innocent  pastimes  which 
do  away  with  conventional  formality  and  reserve,  now  pro- 


196  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

posed  a  game  at  "Hunt  the  Slipper,"  which  was  welcomed  by 
the  whole  party,  except  the  Pole  and  the  Vicomte;  though 
Mademoiselle  Adele  looked  prudish,  and  observed  to  the 
Spicier  that  M.  Lofe  was  so  droll,  but  she  should  not  have 
liked  her  j^auvre  grandmaman  to  see  her. 

The  Vicomte  had  stationed  himself  opposite  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Courval,  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  very  tenderly. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  see,  does  not  approve  of  such  bourgeois 
diversions,"  said  he. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  said  the  gentle  Adele.  "But  I  think  we 
must  sacrifice  our  own  tastes  to  those  of  the  company." 

"It  is  a  very  amiable  sentiment,"  said  the  Spicier. 

"It  is  one  attributed  to  Grandmamma's  papa,  the  Marquis 
de  Courval.  It  has  become  quite  a  hackneyed  remark  since, " 
said  Adele. 

"Come,  ladies,"  said  the  joyous  Eosalie;  "I  volunteer  my 
slipper." 

" Asseyez-vous  done,"  said  Madame  Beavor  to  the  Pole. 
"Have  you  no  games  of  this  sort  in  Poland? " 

"Madame,  La  Fologne  is  no  more,"  said  the  Pole;  "but 
with  the  swords  of  her  brave  —  " 

"No  swords  here,  if  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Love,  putting 
his  vast  hands  on  the  Pole's  shoulder,  and  sinking  him  forci- 
bly down  into  the  circle  now  formed. 

The  game  proceeded  with  great  vigour  and  much  laughter 
from  Rosalie,  Mr.  Love,  and  Madame  Beavor,  espcially  when- 
ever the  last  thumped  the  Pole  with  the  heel  of  the  slipper. 
M.  Giraud  was  always  sure  that  Madame  Giraud  had  the  slip- 
per about  her,  which  persuasion  on  his  part  gave  rise  to  many 
little  endearments,  which  are  always  so  innocent  among  mar- 
ried people.  The  Vicomte  and  the  epicier  were  equally  cer- 
tain the  slipper  was  with  Mademoiselle  Adele,  who  defended 
herself  with  much  more  energy  than  might  have  been  sup- 
posed in  one  so  gentle.  The  ejncier,  however,  grew  jealous 
of  the  attentions  of  his  noble  rival,  and  told  him  that  he 
gene\l  Mademoiselle;  Avhereupon  the  Vicomte  called  him  an 
impertinent,  and  the  tall  Frenchman  with  the  ribbon  sprang 
up  and  said,  — 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  197 

"Can  I  be  of  any  assistance,  gentlemen?" 

Therewith  Mr.  Love,  the  great  peacemaker,  interposed,  and 
reconciling  the  rivals,  proposed  to  change  the  game  to  Colin 
Maillard,  —  Aiujlke,  "Blind  Man's  Buff."  Rosalie  clapped 
her  hands,  and  offered  herself  to  be  blindfolded.  The  tables 
and  chairs  were  cleared  away;  and  Madame  Beavor  pushed 
the  Pole  into  Rosalie's  arms,  who,  having  felt  him  about  the 
face  for  some  moments,  guessed  him  to  be  the  tall  Frenchman. 
During  this  time  Monsieur  and  Madame  Giraud  hid  them- 
selves behind  the  window-curtain. 

"  Amuse  yourself,  mon  ami, "  said  Madame  Beavor,  to  the 
liberated  Pole. 

"Ah,  Madame,"  sighed  M.  Sovolofski,  "how  can  I  be  gay! 
All  my  property  confiscated  by  the  Emperor  of  Russia!  Has 
La  Pologne  no  Brutus?" 

"I  think  you  are  in  love,"  said  the  host,  clapping  him  on 
the  back. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  whispered  the  Pole  to  the  match- 
maker, "that  Madame  Beavor  has  vingt  mille  livres  de 
rentes  ?  " 

"Not  a  sou  less." 

The  Pole  mused,  and  glancing  at  Madame  Beavor,  said,  — 
"And  yet,  Madame,  your  charming  gayety  consoles  me  amidst 
all  my  suffering;"  upon  which  Madame  Beavor  called  him 
"flatterer,"  and  rapped  his  knuckles  with  her  fan.  The  latter 
proceeding  the  brave  Pole  did  not  seem  to  like,  for  he  imme- 
diately buried  his  hands  in  his  trousers'  pockets. 

The  game  was  now  at  its  meridian.  Rosalie  was  uncom- 
monly active,  and  flew  about  here  and  there,  much  to  the 
harassment  of  the  Pole,  who  repeatedly  wiped  his  forehead, 
and  observed  that  it  was  warm  work,  and  put  him  in  mind  of 
the  last  sad  battle  for  La  Pologne.  M.  Goupille,  who  had 
lately  taken  lessons  in  dancing,  and  was  vain  of  his  agility, 
mounted  the  chairs  and  tables  as  Rosalie  approached,  with 
great  grace  and  gravity.  It  so  happened  that  in  these  salta- 
tions he  ascended  a  stool  near  the  curtain  behind  which  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Giraud  were  ensconced.  Somewhat  agitated 
by  a  slight  flutter  behind  the  folds,  which  made  him  fancy  on 


198  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

the  sudden  panic  that  Rosalie  was  creeping  that  way,  the 
epicier  made  an  abrupt  pirouette,  and  the  hook  on  which  the 
curtains  were  suspended  caught  his  left  coat-tail,  — 

"  The  fatal  vesture  left  the  unguarded  side." 

Just  as  he  turned  to  extricate  the  garment  from  that  dilemma, 
Rosalie  sprang  upon  him,  and  naturally  lifting  her  hands  to 
that  height  where  she  fancied  the  human  face  divine,  took 
another  extremity  of  M.  Goupille's  graceful  frame  thus  ex- 
posed by  surprise. 

"I  don't  know  who  this  is.  Quelle  drole  de  visaffef"  mut- 
tered Rosalie. 

'^ Mais,  Madame,"  faltered  M.  Goupille,  looking  greatly 
disconcerted. 

The  gentle  Adele,  who  did  not  seem  to  relish  this  adventure, 
came  to  the  relief  of  her  wooer,  and  pinched  Rosalie  very 
sharply  in  the  arm. 

"That's  not  fair;  but  I  will  know  who  this  is,"  cried 
Rosalie,  angrily;    "you  sha'n't  escape!" 

A  sudden  and  universal  burst  of  laughter  roused  her  sus- 
picions; she  drew  back,  and  exclaiming,  "Mais  quelle  mau- 
vaise  plaisanterie;  c'est  trop  fort!"  applied  her  fair  hand  to 
the  place  in  dispute,  with  so  hearty  a  good-will,  that  M. 
Goupille  uttered  a  dolorous  cry,  and  sprang  from  the  chair, 
leaving  the  coat-tail  (the  cause  of  all  his  woe)  suspended  upon 
the  hook. 

It  was  just  at  this  moment,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  excite- 
ment caused  by  M.  Goupille's  misfortune,  that  the  door 
opened,  and  the  attendant  reappeared,  followed  by  a  young 
man  in  a  large  cloak. 

The  new-comer  paused  at  the  threshold,  and  gazed  around 
him  in  evident  surprise. 

^'Biable!"  said  Mr.  Love,  approaching,  and  gazing  hard 
at  the  stranger.  "Is  it  possible?  You  are  come  at  last? 
Welcome ! " 

"But,"  said  the  stranger,  apparently  still  bewildered, 
"there  is  some  mistake;   you  are  not  — " 

"  Yes,  I  am  Mr.  Love,  —  Love  all  the  world  over.     How  is 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  199 

our  friend  Gregg?  -Told  you  to  address  yourself  to  Mr.  Love, 
eh?  Mum!  Ladies  and  geutlemeu,  an  acquisition  to  our 
party.  Fine  fellow,  eh?  Five  feet  eleven  without  his  shoes, 
—  and  young  enough  to  hope  to  be  thrice  married  before  he 
dies.     When  did  you  arrive?  " 

"To-day." 

And  thus,  Philip  Morton  and  Mr.  William  Gawtrey  met 
once  more. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Happy  the  man  who,  void  of  care  and  strife, 

In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 

A  splendid  shilling  !  —  TUe  SiAendid  Shilling. 

And  wherefore  should  they  take  or  care  for  thought  ? 

The  unreasoning  vulgar  willingly  obey, 

And  leaving  toil  and  poverty  behind, 

Run  forth  by  different  ways,  the  blissful  boon  to  find. 

West  ;   Education. 


"Poor  boy!  your  story  interests  me.  The  events  are 
romantic,  but  the  moral  is  practical,  old,  everlasting,  —  life, 
boy,  life.  Poverty  by  itself  is  no  such  great  curse;  that  is, 
if  it  stops  short  of  starving.  And  passion  by  itself  is  a  noble 
thing,  sir;  but  poverty  and  passion  together,  poverty  and  feel- 
ing, poverty  and  pride,  the  poverty  one  is  not  born  to,  but 
falls  into;  and  the  man  who  ousts  you  out  of  your  easy-chair, 
kicking  you  with  every  turn  he  takes,  as  he  settles  himself 
more  comfortably —  why,  there's  no  romance  in  that;  hard 
every-day  life,  sir!  Well,  well.  So  after  your  brother's  let- 
ter you  resigned  yourself  to  that  fellow  Smith." 

"No;  I  gave  him  my  money,  not  my  soul.  I  turned  from 
his  door,  with  a  few  shillings  that  he  himself  thrust  into 
my  hand,  and  walked  on  —  1  cared  not  whither  —  out  of  the 
town,  into  the  fields,  till  night  came;  and  then,  just  as  I  sud- 


200  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

denly  entered  on  the  high  road,  many  miles  away,  the  moon 
rose,  and  I  saw  by  the  hedge-side  something  that  seemed  like 
a  corpse.  It  was  an  old  beggar,  in  the  last  state  of  ragged- 
ness,  disease,  and  famine.  He  had  laid  himself  down  to  die. 
I  shared  with  him  what  I  had,  and  helped  him  to  a  little  inn. 
As  he  crossed  the  threshold,  he  turned  round  and  blessed  me. 
Do  you  know,  the  moment  I  heard  that  blessing  a  stone  seemed 
rolled  away  from  my  heart?  I  said  to  myself,  '  What  then! 
even  1  can  be  of  use  to  some  one ;  and  I  am  better  oif  than 
that  old  man,  for  I  have  youth  and  health.'  As  these 
thoughts  stirred  in  me,  my  limbs,  before  heavy  with  fatigue, 
grew  light;  a  strange  kind  of  excitement  seized  me.  I  ran  on 
gayly  beneath  the  moonlight  that  smiled  over  the  crisp,  broad 
road.  I  felt  as  if  no  house,  not  even  a  palace,  were  large 
enough  for  me  that  night;  and  when,  at  last,  wearied  out,  1 
crept  into  a  wood,  and  laid  myself  down  to  sleep,  I  still  mur- 
mured to  myself,  '  I  have  youth  and  health.'  But  in  the 
morning,  when  I  rose,  I  stretched  out  my  arms,  and  missed 
my  brother !  In  two  or  three  days  I  found  employment  with 
a  farmer;  but  we  quarrelled  after  a  few  weeks,  for  once  he 
wished  to  strike  me;  and  somehow  or  other  I  could  work,  but 
not  serve.  Winter  had  begun  when  we  parted.  Oh,  such  a 
winter!  Then,  then  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  houseless. 
How  I  lived  for  some  months  —  if  to  live  it  can  be  called  — 
it  would  pain  you  to  hear,  and  humble  me  to  tell.  At  last,  1 
found  myself  again  in  London;  and  one  evening,  not  many 
days  since,  I  resolved  at  last  —  for  nothing  else  seemed  left, 
and  I  had  not  touched  food  for  two  days  —  to  come  to  you." 

"And  why  did  that  never  occur  to  you  before? " 

"Because,"  said  Philip,  with  a  deep  blush,  —  "because  I 
trembled  at  the  power  over  my  actions  and  my  future  life 
that  I  was  to  give  to  one  whom  I  was  to  bless  as  a  benefactor, 
yet  distrust  as  a  guide. " 

"Well,"  said  Love,  or  Gawtrey,  with  a  singular  mixture  of 
irony  and  compassion  in  his  voice;  "and  it  was  hunger,  then, 
that  terrified  you  at  last  even  more  than  I?" 

"Perhaps  hunger,  or  perhaps  rather  the  reasoning  that 
comes  from  hunger.     I  had  not,  I  say,  touched  food  for  two 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  201 

days;  and  I  was  standing  on  that  bridge,  from  which  on  one 
side  you  see  the  pahice  of  a  head  of  the  Churcli,  on  the  other 
the  towers  of  the  Abbey,  within  which  the  men  1  have  read  of 
in  history  lie  buried.  It  was  a  cokl,  frosty  evening,  and  the 
river  below  looked  bright  with  the  lamps  and  stars.  1  leaned, 
weak  and  sickening,  against  the  wall  of  the  bridge;  and  in 
one  of  the  arched  recesses  beside  me  a  cripple  held  out  his 
hat  for  pence.  I  envied  him!  he  had  a  livelihood;  he  was 
inured  to  it,  perhaps  bred  to  it;  he  had  no  shame.  By  a  sud- 
den impulse,  I,  too,  turned  abruptly  round,  held  out  my  hand 
to  the  first  passenger,  and  started  at  the  shrillness  of  my  own 
voice,  as  it  cried  *  Charity. '  " 

Gawtrey  threw  another  log  on  the  fire,  looked  complacently 
round  the  comfortable  room,  and  rubbed  his  hands.  The 
young  man  continued,  — 

'"  You  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself;  I've  a  great  mind 
to  give  you  to  the  police,'  was  the  answer,  in  a  pert  and  sharp 
tone.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  the  livery  my  father's  menials 
had  worn.  I  had  been  begging  my  bread  from  Robert  Beau- 
fort's lackey!  I  said  nothing;  the  man  went  on  his  business 
on  tiptoe,  that  the  mud  might  not  splash  above  the  soles  of 
his  shoes.  Then  thoughts  so  black  that  they  seemed  to  blot 
out  every  star  from  the  sky  —  thoughts  1  had  often  wrestled 
against,  but  to  which  I  now  gave  myself  up  with  a  sort  of  mad 
joy  —  seized  me;  and  I  remembered  you.  1  had  still  pre- 
served the  address  you  gave  me;  I  went  straight  to  the  house. 
Your  friend,  on  naming  you,  received  me  kindly,  and  without 
question  placed  food  before  me,  pressed  on  me  clothing  and 
money,  procured  me  a  passport,  gave  me  your  address,  and 
now  I  am  beneath  your  roof.  Gawtrey,  I  know  nothing  yet 
of  the  world  but  the  dark  side  of  it.  I  know  not  what  to 
deem  you ;  but  as  you  alone  have  been  kind  to  me,  so  it  is  to 
your  kindness  rather  than  your  aid  that  I  now  cling,  —  your 
kind  words  and  kind  looks;  yet  — "  he  stopped  short,  and 
breathed  hard. 

"  Yet  you  would  know  more  of  me.  Faith,  my  boy,  I  can- 
not tell  you  more  at  this  moment.  I  believe,  to  speak  fairly, 
1  don't  live  exactly  within  the  pale  of  the  law.     But  I  'm  not 


202  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

a  villain.  I  never  plundered  my  friend  and  called  it  play!  I 
never  murdered  my  friend  and  called  it  honour!  I  never 
seduced  my  friend's  wife  and  called  it  gallantry!  "  As  Gaw- 
trey  said  this,  he  drew  the  words  out,  one  by  one,  through 
his  grinded  teeth,  paused,  and  resumed  more  gayly,  "  I  strug- 
gle with  Fortune;  voila  tout.  I  am  not  what  you  seem  to 
suppose  —  not  exactly  a  swindler,  certainly  not  a  robber! 
But,  as  I  before  told  you,  1  am  a  charlatan.  So  is  every  man 
who  strives  to  be  richer  or  greater  than  he  is.  I,  too,  want 
kindness  as  much  as  you  do.  My  bread  and  my  cup  are  at 
your  service.  I  will  try  and  keep  you  unsullied,  even  by  the 
clean  dirt  that  now  and  then  sticks  to  me.  On  the  other 
hand,  youth,  my  young  friend,  has  no  right  to  play  the 
censor ;  and  you  must  take  me  as  you  take  the  world,  without 
being  over-scrupulous  and  dainty.  My  present  vocation  pays 
well ;  in  fact,  I  am  beginning  to  lay  by.  My  real  name  and 
past  life  are  thoroughly  unknown,  and  as  yet  unsuspected,  in 
this  quart ier ;  for  though  I  have  seen  much  of  Paris,  my 
career  hitherto  has  passed  in  other  parts  of  the  city.  And 
for  the  rest,  own  that  I  am  well  disguised.  What  a  benevo- 
lent air  this  bald  forehead  gives  me,  eh?  True,"  added 
Gawtrey,  somewhat  more  seriously,  "  if  I  saw  how  you  could 
support  yourself  in  a  broader  path  of  life  than  that  in  which 
I  pick  out  my  own  way,  I  might  say  to  you,  as  a  gay  man  of 
fashion  might  say  to  some  sober  stripling,  — nay,  as  many  a 
dissolute  father  says  (or  ought  to  say)  to  his  son,  —  *  It  is  no 
reason  you  should  be  a  sinner  because  I  am  not  a  saint.'  In  a 
word,  if  you  were  well  off  in  a  respectable  profession,  you 
might  have  safer  acquaintances  than  myself;  but  as  it  is, 
upon  my  word  as  a  plain  man,  I  don't  see  what  you  can  do 
better."  Gawtrey  made  this  speech  with  so  much  frankness 
and  ease,  that  it  seemed  greatly  to  relieve  the  listener,  and 
when  he  wound  up  with  "What  say  you?  In  fine,  my  life  is 
that  of  a  great  schoolboy,  getting  into  scrapes  for  the  fun  of  it, 
and  fighting  his  way  out  as  he  best  can!  Will  you  see  how 
you  like  it?  "  Philip,  with  a  confiding  and  grateful  impulse, 
put  his  hand  into  Gawtrey's.  The  host  shook  it  cordially, 
and  without  saying  another  word,  showed  his  guest  into  a 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  203 

little  cabinet  where  there  was  a  sofa-bed,  and  they  parted  for 
the  night. 

The  new  life  upon  which  Philip  Morton  entered  was  so  odd, 
so  grotesque,  and  so  amusing,  that  at  his  age  it  was,  perhaps, 
natural  that  he  should  not  be  clear-sighted  as  to  its  danger, 

William  Gawtrey  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  born  to 
exert  a  certain  influence  and  ascendency  wherever  they  may 
be  thrown.  His  vast  strength,  his  redundant  health,  had  a 
power  of  themselves, — a  moral  as  well  as  physical  power. 
He  naturally  possessed  high  animal  spirits,  beneath  the  sur- 
face of  which,  however,  at  times,  there  was  visible  a  certain 
under-current  of  malignity  and  scorn.  He  had  evidently 
received  a  superior  education,  and  could  command  at  will  the 
manner  of  a  man  not  unfamiliar  with  a  politer  class  of  society. 
From  the  first  hour  that  Philip  had  seen  him  on  the  top  of  the 

coach  on  the  R road,  this  man  had  attracted  his  curiosity 

and  interest;  the  conversation  he  had  heard  in  the  church- 
yard, the  obligations  he  owed  to  Gawtrey  in  his  escape  from 
the  officers  of  justice,  the  time  afterwards  passed  in  his  society 
till  they  separated  at  the  little  inn,  the  rough  and  hearty 
kindliness  Gawtrey  had  shown  him  at  that  period,  and  the 
hospitality  extended  to  him  now, — all  contributed  to  excite 
his  fancy,  and  in  much,  indeed  very  much,  entitled  this  sin- 
gular person  to  his  gratitude.  Morton,  in  a  word,  was  fasci- 
nated; this  man  was  the  only  friend  he  had  made.  I  have 
not  thought  it  necessary  to  detail  to  the  reader  the  conversa- 
tions that  had  taken  place  between  them,  during  that  passage 
of  Morton's  life  when  he  was  before  for  some  days  Gawtrey's 
companion;  yet  those  conversations  had  sunk  deep  in  his 
mind.  He  was  struck,  and  almost  awed,  by  the  profound 
gloom  which  lurked  under  Gawtrey 's  broad  humour, — a 
gloom  not  of  temperament  but  of  knowledge.  His  views  of 
life,  of  human  justice  and  human  virtue,  were  (as,  to  be  sure, 
is  commonly  the  case  with  men  who  have  had  reason  to  quar- 
rel with  the  world)  dreary  and  despairing;  and  Morton's  own 
experience  had  been  so  sad  that  these  opinions  were  more 
influential  than  they  could  ever  have  been  with  the  happy. 
However,  in  this,  their  second  reunion,  there  was  a  greater 


204  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

gayety  than  in  their  first;  and  under  his  host's  roof  Morton 
insensibly,  but  rapidly,  recovered  something  of  the  early  'and 
natural  tone  of  his  impetuous  and  ardent  spirits.  Gawtrey 
himself  was  generally  a  boon  companion ;  their  society,  if  not 
select,  was  merry.  When  their  evenings  were  disengaged, 
Gawtrey  was  fond  of  haunting  cafes  and  theatres,  and  Morton 
was  his  companion;  Birnie  (Mr.  Gawtrey 's  partner)  never 
accompanied  them.  Refreshed  by  this  change  of  life,  the 
very  person  of  this  young  man  regained  its  bloom  and  vigour, 
as  a  plant,  removed  from  some  choked  atmosphere  and  un- 
wholesome soil  where  it  had  struggled  for  light  and  air, 
expands  on  transplanting;  the  graceful  leaves  burst  from  the 
long-drooping  boughs,  and  the  elastic  crest  springs  upward  to 
the  sun  in  the  glory  of  its  young  prime.  If  there  was  still  a 
certain  fiery  sternness  in  his  aspect,  it  had  ceased,  at  least, 
to  be  haggard  and  savage;  it  even  suited  the  character  of  his 
dark  and  expressive  features.  He  might  not  have  lost  the 
something  of  the  tiger  in  his  fierce  temper,  but  in  the  sleek 
hues  and  the  sinewy  symmetry  of  the  frame  he  began  to  put 
forth  also  something  of  the  tiger's  beauty. 

Mr.  Birnie  did  not  sleep  in  the  house;  he  went  home 
nightly  to  a  lodging  at  some  little  distance.  We  have  said 
but  little  about  this  man,  for,  to  all  appearance,  there  was 
little  enough  to  say;  he  rarely  opened  his  own  mouth  except 
to  Gawtrey,  with  whom  Philip  often  observed  him  engaged 
in  whispered  conferences,  to  which  he  was  not  admitted.  His 
eye,  however,  was  less  idle  than  his  lips.  It  was  not  a  bright 
eye;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  dull,  and,  to  the  unobservant, 
lifeless,  of  a  pale  blue,  with  a  dim  film  over  it,  —  the  eye  of  a 
vulture ;  but  it  had  in  it  a  calm,  heavy,  stealthy  watchfulness, 
which  inspired  Morton  with  great  distrust  and  aversion.  Mr. 
Birnie  not  only  spoke  French  like  a  native,  but  all  his  habits, 
his  gestures,  his  tricks  of  manner,  were  French,  —  not  the 
French  of  good  society,  but  more  idiomatic,  as  it  were,  and 
popular.  He  was  not  exactly  a  vulgar  person,  —  he  was  too 
silent  for  that,  —  but  he  was  evidently  of  low  extraction  and 
coarse  breeding;  his  accomplishments  were  of  a  mechanical 
nature;  he  was  an  extraordinary  arithmetician,  he  was  a  very 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  205 

skilful  chemist,  and  kept  a  laboratory  at  his  lodgings;  he 
mended  his  own  clothes  and  linen  with  incomparable  neatness. 
Philip  suspected  him  of  blacking  his  own  shoes,  but  that  was 
prejudice.  Once  he  found  Morton  sketching  horses'  heads  — 
pour  se  d&sennuyer  ;  and  he  made  some  short  criticisms  on  the 
drawings,  which  showed  him  well  acquainted  with  the  art. 
Philip,  surprised,  sought  to  draw  him  into  conversation ;  but 
Birnie  eluded  the  attempt,  and  observed  that  he  had  once  been 
an  engraver. 

Gawtrey  himself  did  not  seem  to  know  much  of  the  early 
life  of  this  person,  or  at  least  he  did  not  seem  to  like  much  to 
talk  of  him.  The  footstep  of  Mr.  Birnie  was  gliding,  noise- 
less, and  catlike;  he  had  no  sociality  in  him;  enjoyed 
nothing;  drank  hard,  but  was  never  drunk.  Somehow  or 
other,  he  had  evidently  over  Gawtrey  an  influence  little  less 
than  that  which  Gawtrey  had  over  Morton;  but  it  was  of  a 
different  nature.  Morton  had  conceived  an  extraordinary 
affection  for  his  friend,  while  Gawtrey  seemed  secretly  to 
dislike  Birnie,  and  to  be  glad  whenever  he  quitted  his  pres- 
ence. It  was,  in  truth,  Gawtrey's  custom  when  Birnie  retired 
for  the  night  to  rub  his  hands,  bring  out  the  punch-bowl, 
squeeze  the  lemons,  and  while  Philip,  stretched  on  the  sofa, 
listened  to  him,  between  sleep  and  waking,  to  talk  on  for  the 
hour  together,  often  till  daybreak,  with  that  bizarre  mixture 
of  knavery  and  feeling,  drollery  and  sentiment,  which  made 
the  dangerous  charm  of  his  society. 

One  evening  as  they  thus  sat  together,  Morton,  after  listen- 
ing for  some  time  to  his  companion's  comments  on  men  and 
things,  said  abruptly,  — 

"  Gawtrey,  there  is  so  much  in  you  that  puzzles  me,  so  much 
which  I  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  with  your  present  pursuits, 
that,  if  I  ask  no  indiscreet  confidence,  I  should  like  greatly  to 
hear  some  account  of  your  early  life.  It  would  please  me  to 
compare  it  with  my  own ;  when  I  am  your  age,  I  will  then 
look  back  and  see  what  I  owed  to  your  example." 

"My  early  life!  well,  you  shall  hear  it.  It  will  put  you 
on  your  guard,  I  hope,  betimes  against  the  two  rocks  of  youth, 
—  love  and  friendship."     Then,  while  squeezing  the  lemon 


206  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

into  his  favourite  beverage,  whieli  Morton  observed  he  made 
stronger  than  usual,  Gawtrey  thus  commenced  "  The  History 

OF    A    GOOD-FOK-NOTHING." 


CHAPTER   III. 

All  his  success  must  od  himself  depend, 
He  had  no  money,  counsel,  guide,  or  friend  ; 
With  spirit  high  John  learned  the  world  to  brave. 
And  in  both  senses  was  a  ready  knave.  —  Crabbe. 

"  My  grandfather  sold  walking-sticks  and  umbrellas  in  the 
little  passage  by  Exeter  'Change;  he  was  a  man  of  genius  and 
speculation.  As  soon  as  he  had  scraped  together  a  little 
money,  he  lent  it  to  some  poor  devil  with  a  hard  landlord,  at 
twenty  per  cent,  and  made  him  take  half  the  loan  in  umbrellas 
or  bamboos.  By  these  means  he  got  his  foot  into  the  ladder, 
and  climbed  upward  and  upward,  till,  at  the  age  of  forty,  he 
had  amassed  £5,000.  He  then  looked  about  for  a  wife.  An 
honest  trader  in  the  Strand,  who  dealt  largely  in  cotton  prints, 
possessed  an  only  daughter;  this  young  lady  had  a  legacy, 
from  a  great-aunt,  of  £3,220,  with  a  small  street  in  St.  Giles's, 
where  the  tenants  paid  weekly  (all  thieves  or  rogues,  —  all,  so 
their  rents  were  sure).  Now  my  grandfather  conceived  a 
great  friendship  for  the  father  of  this  young  lady;  gave  him 
a  hint  as  to  a  new  pattern  in  spotted  cottons ;  enticed  him  to 
take  out  a  patent,  and  lent  him  £700  for  the  speculation, 
applied  for  the  money  at  the  very  moment  cottons  were  at 
their  worst,  and  got  the  daughter  instead  of  the  money,  —  by 
which  exchange,  you  see,  he  won  £2,520,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  young  lady.  My  grandfather  then  entered  into  partner- 
ship with  the  worthy  trader,  carried  on  the  patent  with  spirit, 
and  begat  two  sons.  As  he  grew  older,  ambition  seized  him; 
his  sons  should  be  gentlemen,  — one  was  sent  to  College,  the 
other  put  into  a  marching  regiment.     My  grandfather  meant 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  207 

to  die  worth  a  plum;  but  a  fever  he  caught  in  visiting  his 
tenants  in  St.  Giles's  prevented  him,  and  he  only  left  £2(>,000 
equally  divided  between  the  sons.  My  father,  the  College 
man  "  (here  Gawtrey  paused  a  moment,  took  a  large  draught 
of  the  punch,  and  resumed  with  a  visible  effort),  —  my  father, 
the  College  man,  was  a  person  of  rigid  principles,  bore  an 
excellent  character,  had  a  great  regard  for  the  world.  He 
married  early  and  respectably.  I  am  the  sole  fruit  of  that 
union.  He  lived  soberly;  his  temper  was  harsh  and  morose, 
his  home  gloomy ;  he  was  a  very  severe  father,  and  my  mother 
died  before  I  was  ten  years  old.  When  I  was  fourteen,  a  little 
old  Frenchman  came  to  lodge  with  us ;  he  had  been  persecuted 
under  the  old  regime  for  being  a  philosopher;  he  filled  my 
head  with  odd  crotchets  which,  more  or  less,  have  stuck  there 
ever  since.  At  eighteen  I  was  sent  to  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge.  IMy  father  was  rich  enough  to  have  let  me  go  up 
in  the  higher  rank  of  a  pensioner,  but  he  had  lately  grown 
avaricious ;  he  thought  that  I  was  extravagant ;  he  made  me  a 
sizar,  perhaps  to  spite  me.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  those 
inequalities  in  life  which  the  Frenchman  had  dinned  into  my 
ears  met  me  practically.  A  sizar!  another  name  for  a  dog! 
I  had  such  strength,  health,  and  spirits  that  I  had  more  life 
in  my  little  finger  than  half  the  fellow-commoners  —  genteel, 
spindle-shanked  striplings,  who  might  have  passed  for  a  col- 
lection of  my  grandfather's  walking-canes  —  had  in  their 
whole  bodies.  And  I  often  think,"  continued  Gawtrey,  "that 
health  and  spirits  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for!  When  we 
are  young  we  so  far  resemble  savages,  who  are  Nature's  young 
people,  that  we  attach  prodigious  value  to  physical  advan- 
tages. My  feats  of  strength  and  activity,  —  the  clods  I 
thrashed  and  the  railings  I  leaped  and  the  boat-races  I 
■won, — are  they  not  written  in  the  chronicle  of  St.  John's? 
These  achievements  inspired  me  with  an  extravagant  sense  of 
my  own  superiority ;  I  could  not  but  despise  the  rich  fellows 
whom  I  could  have  blown  down  with  a  sneeze.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  an  impassable  barrier  between  me  and  them,  —  a 
sizar  was  not  a  proper  associate  for  the  favourites  of  fortune! 
But  there  was  one  young  man,  a  year  younger  than  myself,  of 


208  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

high  birth,  and  the  heir  to  considerable  wealth,  who  did  not 
regard  me  with  the  same  supercilious  insolence  as  the  rest. 
His  very  rank,  perhaps,  made  him  indifferent  to  the  little 
conventional  formalities  which  influence  persons  who  cannot 
play  at  football  with  this  round  world ;  he  was  the  wildest 
youngster  in  the  University,  —  lamp-breaker,  tandem-driver, 
mob-fighter, — a  very  devil  in  short;  clever,  but  not  in  the 
reading  line;  small  and  slight,  but  brave  as  a  lion.  Con- 
genial habits  made  us  intimate,  and  I  loved  him  like  a 
brother,  —  better  than  a  brother,  as  a  dog  loves  his  master. 
In  all  our  rows  I  covered  him  with  my  body.  He  had  but  to 
say  to  me,  '  Leap  into  the  water, '  and  I  would  not  have 
stopped  to  pull  off  my  coat.  In  short,  I  loved  him  as  a 
proud  man  loves  one  who  stands  betwixt  him  and  contempt, 
—  as  an  affectionate  man  loves  one  who  stands  between  him 
and  solitude.  To  cut  short  a  long  story :  my  friend,  one  dark 
night,  committed  an  outrage  against  discipline  of  the  most 
unpardonable  character.  There  was  a  sanctimonious,  grave 
old  Fellow  of  the  College  crawling  home  from  a  tea-party ;  my 
friend  and  another  of  his  set  seized,  blindfolded,  and  hand- 
cuffed this  poor  wretch,  carried  him,  vi  et  armis,  back  to  the 
house  of  an  old  maid  whom  he  had  been  courting  for  the  last 
ten  years,  fastened  his  pigtail  (he  wore  a  long  one)  to  the 
knocker,  and  so  left  him.  You  may  imagine  the  infernal 
hubbub  which  his  attempts  to  extricate  himself  caused  in  the 
whole  street;  the  old  maid's  old  maid-servant,  after  emptying 
on  his  head  all  the  vessels  of  wrath  she  could  lay  her  hand  to, 
screamed,  '  Kape  and  murder ! '  The  proctor  and  his  bull-dogs 
came  up,  released  the  prisoner,  and  gave  chase  to  the  delin- 
quents, who  had  incautiously  remained  near  to  enjoy  the  sport. 
The  night  was  dark,  and  they  reached  the  College  in  safety; 
but  they  had  been  tracked  to  the  gates.  For  this  offence  I 
was  expelled." 

"Why,  you  were  not  concerned  in  it?"  said  Philip. 

"No;  but  I  was  suspected  and  accused.  I  could  have  got 
off  by  betraying  the  true  culprits,  but  my  friend's  father  was 
in  public  life,  —  a  stern,  haughty,  old  statesman ;  my  friend 
was  mortally  afraid  of  him,  —  the  only  person  he  was  afraid 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  209 

of.  If  I  had  too  much  insisted  on  my  innocence,  I  might 
have  set  inquiry  on  the  right  track.  In  fine,  I  was  happy  to 
prove  my  friendship  for  him.  He  shook  me  most  tenderly  by 
the  hand  on  parting,  and  promised  never  to  forget  my  gener- 
ous devotion.  I  went  home  in  disgrace.  I  need  not  tell  you 
what  my  father  said  to  me ;  I  do  not  think  he  ever  loved  me 
from  that  hour.  Shortly  after  this  my  uncle,  George  Gawtrey, 
the  captain,  returned  from  abroad;  he  took  a  great  fancy  to 
me,  and  I  left  my  father's  house  (which  had  grown  insuli'era- 
ble)  to  live  with  him.  He  had  been  a  very  handsome  man,  a 
gay  spendthrift;  he  had  got  through  his  fortune,  and  now 
lived  on  his  wits,  —  he  was  a  professed  gambler.  His  easy 
temper,  his  lively  humour,  fascinated  me;  he  knew  the  world 
well;  and,  like  all  gamblers,  was  generous  when  the  dice  were 
lucky,  —  which,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  they  generally  were 
with  a  man  who  had  no  scruples.  Though  his  practices 
were  a  little  suspected,  they  had  never  been  discovered.  We 
lived  in  an  elegant  apartment,  mixed  familiarly  with  men  of 
various  ranks,  and  enjoyed  life  extremely.  I  brushed  off  my 
college  rust,  and  conceived  a  taste  for  expense.  I  knew  not 
why  it  was,  but  in  my  new  existence  every  one  was  kind  to 
me ;  and  I  had  spirits  that  made  me  welcome  everywhere.  I 
was  a  scamp,  —  but  a  frolicsome  scamp,  and  that  is  always  a 
popular  character.  As  yet  I  was  not  dishonest,  but  saw  dis- 
honesty round  me,  and  it  seemed  a  very  pleasant,  jolly  mode 
of  making  money;  and  now  I  again  fell  into  contact  with  the 
young  heir.  My  college  friend  was  as  wild  in  London  as  he 
had  been  at  Cambridge ;  but  the  boy-ruffian,  though  not  then 
twenty  years  of  age,  had  grown  into  the  man- villain." 

Here  Gawtrey  paused,  and  frowned  darkly. 

"  He  had  great  natural  parts,  this  young  man,  —  much  wit, 
readiness,  and  cunning,  and  he  became  very  intimate  with  my 
uncle.  He  learned  of  him  how  to  play  the  dice,  and  to  pack 
the  cards;  he  paid  him  £1,000  for  the  knowledge! " 

"How!  a  cheat?     You  said  he  was  rich." 

"  His  father  was  very  rich,  and  he  had  a  liberal  allowance ; 
but  he  was  very  extravagant;  and  rich  men  love  gain  as  well 
as  poor  men  do !     He  had  no  excuse  but  the  grand  excuse  of 
14 


210  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

all  vice,  —  Selfishness.  Young  as  lie  was  he  became  the 
fashion,  and  he  fattened  upon  the  plunder  of  his  equals,  who 
desired  the  honour  of  his  acquaintance.  Now,  I  had  seen  my 
uncle  cheat,  but  I  had  never  imitated  his  example.  When 
the  man  of  fashion  cheated,  and  made  a  jest  of  his  earnings 
and  my  scruples ;  when  I  saw  him  courted,  flattered,  honoured, 
and  his  acts  unsuspected,  because  his  connections  embraced 
half  the  peerage,  the  temptation  grew  strong,  but  I  still 
resisted  it.  However,  my  father  always  said  I  was  born  to 
be  a  good-for-nothing,  and  I  could  not  escape  my  destiny. 
And  now  I  suddenly  fell  in  love;  you  don't  know  what  that 
is  yet,  —  so  much  the  better  for  you.  The  girl  was  beautiful, 
and  I  thought  she  loved  me ;  perhaps  she  did ;  but  I  was  too 
poor,  so  her  friends  said,  for  marriage.  We  courted,  as  the 
saying  is,  in  the  meanwhile.  It  v/as  my  love  for  her,  my 
wish  to  deserve  her,  that  made  me  iron  against  my  friend's 
example.  I  was  fool  enough  to  speak  to  him  of  Mary,  to 
present  him  to  her.  This  ended  in  her  seduction."  (Again 
Gawtrey  paused,  and  breathed  hard.)  "I  discovered  the 
treachery,  I  called  out  the  seducer;  he  sneered  and  refused 
to  fight  the  lowborn  adventurer.  I  struck  him  to  the  earth  — 
and  then  we  fought.  I  Avas  satisfied  by  a  ball  through  my 
side!  but  Ae,"  added  Gawtrey,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  with  a 
vindictive  chuckle,  —  "Ae  was  a  cripple  for  life!  When  I 
recovered  I  found  that  my  foe,  whose  sick-chaml)er  was 
crowded  with  friends  and  comforters,  had  taken  advantage  of 
my  illness  to  ruin  my  reputation.  He,  the  swindler,  accused 
me  of  his  own  crime.  The  equivocal  character  of  my  uncle 
confirmed  the  charge.  Rim  his  own  high-born  pupil  was 
enabled  to  unmask,  and  his  disgrace  was  visited  on  me.  I 
left  my  bed  to  find  my  uncle  (all  disgiiise  over)  an  avowed 
partner  in  a  hell,  and  myself  blasted  alike  in  name,  love, 
past,  and  future.  And  then,  Philip,  then  I  commenced  that 
career  which  I  have  trodden  since,  —  the  prince  of  good- 
fellows  and  good-for-nothings,  with  ten  thousand  aliases, 
and  as  many  strings  to  my  bow.  Society  cast  me  off  when 
I  was  innocent.  Egad,  1  have  had  my  revenge  on  society 
since  I     Ho,  ho,  ho  I  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  211 

The  laugli  of  this  man  had  in  it  a  moral  infection.  There 
was  a  sort  of  ghirying  in  its  deep  tone ;  it  was  not  the  hollow 
hysteric  of  shame  and  despair,  — it  spoke  a  sanguine  joyous- 
ness!  William  Gawtrey  Avas  a  man  whose  animal  constitu- 
tion had  led  him  to  take  animal  pleasure  in  all  things;  he 
had  enjoyed  the  poisons  he  had  lived  on. 

"But  your  father  —  surely  your  father  —  " 

"  My  father, "  interrupted  Gawtrey,  "  refused  me  the  money 
(but  a  small  sum)  that,  once  struck  with  the  strong  impulse 
of  a  sincere  penitence,  I  begged  of  him,  to  enable  me  to  get 
an  honest  living  in  a  humble  trade.  His  refusal  soured  the 
penitence ;  it  gave  me  an .  excuse  for  my  career,  —  and  con- 
science grapples  to  an  excuse  as  a  drowning  wretch  to  a 
straw.  And  yet  this  hard  father,  this  cautious,  moral,  money- 
loving  man,  three  months  afterwards  suffered  a  rogue  —  almost 
a  stranger  —  to  decoy  him  into  a  speculation  that  promised  to 
bring  him  fifty  per  cent.  He  invested  in  the  traffic  of  usury 
what  had  sufficed  to  save  a  hundred  such  as  I  am  from  perdi- 
tion, and  he  lost  it  all.  It  was  nearly  his  whole  fortune ;  but 
he  lives  and  has  his  luxuries  still.  He  cannot  speculate,  but 
he  can  save;  he  cared  not  if  I  starved,  for  he  finds  an  hourly 
happiness  in  starving  himself." 

"And  your  friend,"  said  Philip,  after  a  pause  in  which  his 
young  sympathies  went  dangerously  with  the  excuses  for  his 
benefactor;  "what  has  become  of  him,  and  the  poor  girl?" 

"My  friend  became  a  great  man;  he  succeeded  to  his 
father's  peerage  —  a  very  ancient  one  —  and  to  a  splendid 
income.  He  is  living  still.  Well,  you  shall  hear  about  the 
poor  girl!  We  are  told  of  victims  of  seduction  dying  in  a 
workhouse  or  on  a  dung-hill,  penitent,  broken-hearted,  and 
uncommonly  ragged  and  sentimental.  It  may  be  a  frequent 
case,  but  it  is  not  the  worst.  It  is  worse,  I  think,  when  the 
fair,  penitent,  innocent,  credulous  dupe  becomes  in  her  turn 
the  deceiver;  when  she  catches  vice  from  the  breath  upon 
which  she  has  hung;  when  she  ripens  and  mellows  and  rots 
away  into  painted,  blazing,  staring,  wholesale  harlotry;  when 
in  her  turn  she  ruins  warm  youth  with  false  smiles  and  long 
bills ;  and  when  worse  —  worse  than  all  —  when  she  has  chil- 


212  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

dren,  daughters  perhaps,  brought  up  to  the  same  trade,  cooped, 
plumped,  for  some  hoary  lecher,  without  a  heart  in  their 
bosoms,  unless  a  balance  for  weighing  money  may  be  called  a 
heart.  Mary  became  this;  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  she  had 
rather  died  in  an  hospital!  Her  lover  polluted  her  soul  as 
well  as  her  beauty :  he  found  her  another  lover  when  he  was 
tired  of  her.  When  she  was  at  the  age  of  thirty-six  I  met  her 
in  Paris,  with  a  daughter  of  sixteen.  I  was  then  flush  with 
money,  frequenting  salons,  and  playing  the  part  of  a  fine  gen- 
tleman. She  did  not  know  me  at  first ;  and  she  sought  my 
acquaintance.  For  you  must  know,  my  young  friend,"  said 
Gawtrey,  abruptly  breaking  off  the  thread  of  his  narrative, 
"  that  I  am  not  altogether  the  low  dog  you  might  suppose  in 
seeing  me  here.  At  Paris  —  ah!  you  don't  know  Paris  — 
there  is  a  glorious  ferment  in  society  in  which  the  dregs  are 
often  uppermost !  I  came  here  at  the  Peace,  and  here  have  I 
resided  the  greater  part  of  each  year  ever  since.  The  vast 
masses  of  energy  and  life,  broken  up  by  the  great  thaw  of  the 
Imperial  system,  floating  along  the  tide,  are  terrible  icebergs 
for  the  vessel  of  the  State.  Some  think  Napoleonism  over, 
—  its  effects  are  only  begun.  Society  is  shattered  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  and  I  laugh  at  the  little  rivets  by  which 
they  think  to  keep  it  together.  ^  But  to  return.  Paris,  I  say, 
is  the  atmosphere  for  adventurers,  —  new  faces  and  new  men 
are  so  common  here  that  they  excite  no  impertinent  inquiry, 
it  is  so  usual  to  see  fortunes  made  in  a  day  and  spent  in  a 
month;  except  in  certain  circles,  there  is  no  walking  round 
a  man's  character  to  spy  out  where  it  wants  piercing!  Some 
lean  Greek  poet  put  lead  in  his  pockets  to  prevent  being  blown 
away;  put  gold  in  your  pockets,  and  at  Paris  you  may  defy 
the  sharpest  wind  in  the  world,  —yea,  even  the  breath  of  that 
old  ^olus,  —  Scandal !  Well,  then,  I  had  money  —  no  matter 
how  I  came  by  it  —  and  health  and  gayety;  and  I  was  well 
received  in  the  coteries  that  exist  in  all  capitals,  but  mostly 
in  France,  where  pleasure  is  the  cement  that  joins  many  dis- 
cordant atoms.     Here,  I  say,  I  met  Mary  and  her  daughter, 

1  This  passage  was  written  at  a  period  when  the  dynasty  of  Louis  Philippe 
seemed  the  most  assured,  and  Napoleonism  was  indeed  considered  extinct. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  213 

by  my  old  friend  —  the  daughter,  still  innocent,  but,  sacre  !  in 
what  an  element  of  vice !  We  knew  each  other's  secrets,  Mary 
and  I,  and  kept  them;  she  thought  me  a  greater  knave  than  T 
was,  and  she  intrusted  to  me  her  intention  of  selling  her  child 
to  a  rich  English  marquis.  On  the  other  hand,  the  poor  girl 
confided  to  me  her  horror  of  the  scenes  she  witnessed  and  the 
snares  that  surrounded  her.  What  do  you  think  preserved 
her  pure  from  all  danger?  Bah!  you  will  never  guess!  It 
was  partly  because,  if  example  corrupts,  it  as  often  deters, 
but  principally  because  she  loved.  A  girl  who  loves  one  man 
purely  has  about  her  an  amulet  which  defies  the  advances  of 
the  profligate.  There  was  a  handsome  young  Italian,  an 
artist,  who  frequented  the  house,  —  he  was  the  man.  I  had 
to  choose,  then,  between  mother  and  daughter;  I  chose  the 
last." 

Philip  seized  hold  of  Gawtrey's  hand,  grasped  it  warmly, 
and  the  good-for-nothing  continued,  — 

"  Do  you  know,  that  I  loved  that  girl  as  well  as  I  had  ever 
loved  the  mother,  though  in  another  way;  she  teas  what  I 
fancied  the  mother  to  be  ;  still  more  fair,  more  graceful,  more 
winning,  with  a  heart  as  full  of  love  as  her  mother's  had  been 
of  vanity.  I  loved  that  child  as  if  she  had  been  my  own 
daughter.  I  induced  her  to  leave  her  mother's  house,  I 
secreted  her,  I  saw  her  married  to  the  man  she  loved,  I  gave 
her  away,  and  saw  no  more  of  her  for  several  months." 
"Why?" 

"Because  I  spent  them  in  prison!  The  young  people  could 
not  live  upon  air ;  I  gave  them  what  I  had,  and  in  order  to  do 
more  I  did  something  which  displeased  the  police ;  I  narrowly 
escaped  that  time ;  but  I  am  popular,  very  popular,  and  with 
plenty  of  witnesses,  not  over  scrupulous,  I  got  off!  When  I 
was  released,  I  would  not  go  to  see  them,  for  my  clothes  were 
ragged :  the  police  still  watched  me,  and  I  would  not  do  them 
harm  in  the  world!  Ay,  poor  wretches!  they  struggled  so 
hard;  he  could  get  very  little  by  his  art,  though,  I  believe, 
he  was  a  cleverish  fellow  at  it,  and  the  money  I  had  given 
them  could  not  last  forever.  They  lived  near  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  at  night  I  used  to  steal  out  and  look  at  them 


214  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

through  the  window.  They  seemed  so  happy  and  so  handsome 
and  so  good;  but  he  looked  sickly,  and  I  saw  that,  like  all 
Italians,  he  languished  for  his  own  warm  climate.  But  man 
is  born  to  act  as  well  as  to  contemplate,"  pursued  Gawtrey, 
changing  his  tone  into  the  allegro,  "and  I  was  soon  driven 
into  my  old  ways,  though  in  a  lower  line.  I  went  to  London, 
just  to  give  my  reputation  an  airing,  and  when  I  returned, 
pretty  flush  again,  the  poor  Italian  was  dead,  and  Fanny  was 
a  widow,  with  one  boy,  and  enceinte  with  a  second  child.  So 
then  I  sought  her  again,  for  her  mother  had  found  her  out, 
and  was  at  her  with  her  devilish  kindness ;  but  Heaven  was 
merciful,  and  took  her  away  from  both  of  us.  She  died  in 
giving  birth  to  a  girl,  and  her  last  words  were  uttered  to  me, 
imploring  me  —  the  adventurer,  the  charlatan,  the  good-for- 
nothing —  to  keep  her  child  from  the  clutches  of  her  own 
mother.  Well,  sir,  I  did  what  I  could  for  both  the  children ; 
but  the  boy  was  consumptive,  like  his  father,  and  sleeps  at 
Pere-la-Chaise.  The  girl  is  here, — you  shall  see  her  some 
day.  Poor  Fanny!  if  ever  the  devil  will  let  me,  I  shall 
reform  for  her  sake ;  meanwhile,  for  her  sake  I  must  get  grist 
for  the  mill.  My  story  is  concluded,  for  I  need  not  tell  you 
all  of  my  pranks,  of  all  the  parts  I  have  played  in  life.  I  have 
never  been  a  murderer  or  a  burglar  or  a  highway  robber,  or 
what  the  law  calls  a  thief.  I  can  only  say,  as  I  said  before, 
I  have  lived  upon  my  wits,  and  they  have  been  a  tolerable 
capital  on  the  whole.  I  have  been  an  actor,  a  money-lender,  a 
physician,  a  professor  of  animal  magnetism  {that  was  lucra- 
tive-till  it  went  out  of  fashion, — perhaps  it  will  come  in 
again) ;  I  have  been  a  lawyer,  a  house-agent,  a  dealer  in  curi- 
osities and  china;  I  have  kept  a  hotel ;  I  have  set  up  a  weekly 
newspaper;  I  have  seen  almost  every  city  in  Europe,  and 
made  acquaintance  with  some  of  its  jails;  bat  a  man  who  has 
plenty  of  brains  generally  falls  on  his  legs." 

"And  your  father?"  said  Philip;  and  here  he  spoke  to 
Gawtrey  of  the  conversation  he  had  overheard  in  the  church- 
yard, but  on  which  a  scruple  of  natural  delicacy  had  hitherto 
kept  him  silent. 

"Well,  now,"  said  his  host,  while  a  slight  blush  rose  to  his 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  215 

cheeks,  "  I  will  tell  you  that  though  to  my  father's  sternness 
and  avarice  I  attribute  many  of  my  faults,  I  yet  always  had  a 
sort  of  love  for  him ;  and  when  in  London  I  accidentally  heard 
that  he  was  growing  blind,  and  living  with  an  artful  old  jade 
of  a  housekeeper,  who  might  send  him  to  rest  with  a  dose  of 
magnesia  the  night  after  she  had  coaxed  him  to  make  a  will  in 
her  favour.  I  sought  him  out,  and  —  but  you  say  you  heard 
what  passed." 

"  Yes ;  and  I  heard  him  also  call  you  by  name  when  it  was 
too  late,  and  I  saw  the  tears  on  his  cheeks." 

"Did  you?  Will  you  swear  to  that?"  exclaimed  Gawtrey, 
with  vehemence;  then,  shading  his  brow  with  his  hand,  he 
fell  into  a  revery  that  lasted  some  moments. 

"If  anything  happen  to  me,  Philip,"  he  said  abruptly, 
"perhaps  he  may  yet  be  a  father  to  poor  Fanny;  and  if  he 
takes  to  her,  she  will  repay  him  for  whatever  pain  I  may  per- 
haps have  cost  him.  Stop!  now  I  think  of  it,  I  will  write 
down  his  address  for  you;  never  forget  it.  There!  It  is  time 
to  go  to  bed." 

Gawtrey's  tale  made  a  deep  impression  on  Philip.  He  was 
too  young,  too  inexperienced,  too  much  borne  away  by  the 
passion  of  the  narrator,  to  see  that  Gawtrey  had  less  cause  to 
blame  Fate  than  himself.  True,  he  had  been  unjustly  impli- 
cated in  the  disgrace  of  an  unworthy  uncle,  but  he  had  lived 
with  that  uncle,  though  he  knew  him  to  be  a  common  cheat; 
true,  he  had  been  betrayed  by  a  friend,  but  he  had  before 
known  that  friend  to  be  a  man  without  principle  or  honour. 
But  what  wonder  that  an  ardent  boy  saw  nothing  of  this,  — 
saw  only  the  good  heart  that  had  saved  a  poor  girl  from  vice, 
and  sighed  to  relieve  a  harsh  and  avaricious  parent?  Even 
the  hints  that  Gawtrey  unawares  let  fall  of  practices  scarcely 
covered  by  the  jovial  phrase  of  "a  great  schoolboy's  scrapes," 
either  escaped  the  notice  of  Philip,  or  were  charitably  con- 
strued by  him,  in  the  compassion  and  the  ignorance  of  a 
young,  hasty,  and  grateful  heart. 


216  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

And  she  's  a  stranger : 

Women,  beware  women.  —  Middleton. 

As  we  love  our  youngest  children  best, 
So  the  last  fruit  of  our  affection, 
Wherever  we  bestow  it,  is  most  strong  ; 
Since  't  is  indeed  our  latest  harvest-home, 
Last  merriment  'fore  winter ! 

Webster  :  Devil's  Law  Case. 

I  would  fain  know  what  kind  of  thing  a  man's  heart  is. 
I  will  report  to  you :   't  is  a  thing  framed 
With  divers  corners !  —  Eowley. 

I  HAVE  said  that  Gawtrey's  tale  made  a  deep  impression  on 
Philip;  that  impression  was  increased  by  subsequent  conver- 
sations, more  frank  even  than  their  talk  had  hitherto  been. 
There  was  certainly  about  this  man  a  fatal  charm  which  con- 
cealed his  vices.  It  arose,  perhaps,  from  the  perfect  combina- 
tions of  his  physical  frame,  —  from  a  health  which  made  his 
spirits  buoyant  and  hearty  under  all  circumstances,  and  a 
blood  so  fresh,  so  sanguine,  that  it  could  not  fail  to  keep  the 
pores  of  the  heart  open.  But  he  was  not  the  less  —  for  all  his 
kindly  impulses  and  generous  feelings,  and  despite  the  man- 
ner in  which,  naturally  anxious  to  make  the  least  unfavoura- 
ble portrait  of  himself  to  Philip,  he  softened  and  glossed  over 
the  practices  of  his  life  —  a  thorough  and  complete  rogue,  a 
dangerous,  desperate,  reckless  dare-devil.  It  was  easy  to  see 
when  anything  crossed  him,  by  the  cloud  on  his  shaggy  brow, 
by  the  swelling  of  the  veins  on  the  forehead,  by  the  dilation 
of  the  broad  nostril,  that  he  was  one  to  cut  his  way  through 
every  obstacle  to  an  end,  —  choleric,  impetuous,  fierce,  deter- 
mined. Such,  indeed,  were  the  qualities  that  made  him 
respected  among  his  associates,  as  his  more  bland  and  humor- 
ous ones  made  him  beloved.     He  was,  in  fact,  the  incarnation 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  217 

of  that  great  spirit  which  the  laws  of  the  world  raise  up 
against  the  world,  and  by  which  the  world's  injustice  on  a 
large  scale  is  awfully  chastised;  on  a  small  scale,  merely 
nibbled  at  and  harassed,  as  the  rat  that  gnaws  the  hoof  of 
the  elephant,  —  the  spirit  which,  on  a  vast  theatre,  rises  up, 
gigantic  and  sublime,  in  the  heroes  of  war  and  revolution,  in 
Mirabeaus,  Marats,  Napoleons;  on  a  minor  stage,  it  shows 
itself  in  demagogues,  fanatical  philosophers,  and  mob-writers. 
And  on  the  forbidden  boards  before  whose  reeking  lamps  out- 
casts sit,  at  once  audience  and  actors,  it  never  produced  a 
knave  more  consummate  in  his  part,  or  carrying  it  off  with 
more  buskined  dignity,  than  William  Gawtrey.  I  call  him 
by  his  aboriginal  name;  as  for  his  other  appellations,  Bacchus 
himself  had  not  so  many ! 

One  day,  a  lady,  richly  dressed,  was  ushered  by  Mr.  Birnie 
into  the  bureau  of  Mr.  Love,  alias  Gawtrey.  Philip  was 
seated  by  the  window,  reading,  for  the  first  time,  the  "  Can- 
dide,"  — that  work,  next  to  "Rasselas,"  the  most  hopeless  and 
gloomy  of  the  sports  of  genius  with  mankind.  The  lady 
seemed  rather  embarrassed  when  she  perceived  Mr.  Love  was 
not  alone.  She  drew  back,  and,  drawing  her  veil  still  more 
closely  round  her,   said,   in  French,  — 

"Pardon  me,  I  would  wish  a  private  conversation." 

Philip  rose  to  withdraw,  when  the  lady,  observing  him  with 
eyes  whose  lustre  shone  through  the  veil,  said  gently,  — 

"But  perhaps  the  young  gentleman  is  discreet." 

"  He  is  not  discreet,  he  is  discretion !  —  my  adopted  son. 
You  may  confide  in  him,  upon  my  honour  you  may,  madam !  " 
and  Mr.  Love  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"He  is  very  young,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of  involuntary 
compassion,  as,  with  a  very  white  hand,  she  unclasped  the 
buckle  of  her  cloak. 

"He  can  the  better  understand  the  curse  of  celibacy," 
returned  Mr.  Love,   smiling. 

The  lady  lifted  part  of  her  veil,  and  discovered  a  handsome 
mouth  and  a  set  of  small,  white  teeth;  for  she,  too,  smiled, 
though  gravely,  as  she  turned  to  Morton,  and  said,  — 

"  You  seem,  sir,  more  fitted  to  be  a  votary  of  the  temple  than 


218  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

one  of  its  officers.  However,  Monsieur  Love,  let  there  be  no 
mistake  between  us ;  I  do  not  come  here  to  form  a  marriage, 
but  to  prevent  one.  I  understand  that  M.  the  Vicomte  de 
Vaudemont  has  called  into  request  your  services.  I  am  one 
of  the  Vicomte's  family;  we  are  all  anxious  that  he  should  not 
contract  an  engagement  of  the  strange,  and,  pardon  me,  unbe- 
coming character  which  must  stamp  a  union  formed  at  a  pub- 
lic office." 

"I  assure  you,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Love,  with  dignity,  "that 
we  have  contributed  to  the  very  first  —  " 

"J/ow  Dieu!"  interrupted  the  lady,  with  much  impatience, 
"  spare  me  a  eulogy  on  your  establishment.  I  have  no  doubt 
it  is  very  respectable,  and  for  fjrisettes  and  ^j^iciers  may  do 
extremely  well.  But  the  Vicomte  is  a  man  of  birth  and  con- 
nections. In  a  word,  what  he  contemplates  is  preposterous. 
I  know  not  what  fee  Monsieur  Love  expects ;  but  if  he  con- 
trive to  amuse  M.  de  Vaudemont,  and  to  frustrate  every  con- 
nection he  proposes  to  form,  that  fee,  whatever  it  may  be, 
shall  be  doubled.     Do  you  understand  me?  " 

*'  Perfectly,  madam ;  yet  it  is  not  your  offer  that  will  bias 
me,  but  the  desire  to  oblige  so  charming  a  lady." 

"It  is  agreed,  then?"  said  the  lady,  carelessly;  and  as  she 
spoke  she  again  glanced  at  Philip. 

"If  Madame  will  call  again,  I  will  inform  her  of  my  plans," 
said  Mr.  Love. 

"Yes,  I  will  call  again.  Good  morning."  As  she  rose  and 
passed  Philip,  she  wholly  put  aside  her  veil,  and  looked  at 
him  with  a  gaze  entirely  free  from  coquetry,  but  curious, 
searching,  and  perhaps  admiring,  —  the  look  that  an  artisB 
may  give  to  a  picture  that  seems  of  more  value  than  the  place 
where  he  finds  it  would  seem  to  indicate.  The  countenance 
of  the  lady  herself  was  fair  and  noble,  and  Philip  felt  a 
strange  thrill  at  his  heart  as,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  her 
head,  she  turned  from  the  room. 

"Ah!"  said  Gawtrey,  laughing,  "this  is  not  the  first  time 
I  have  been  paid  by  relations  to  break  off  the  marriages  I  had 
formed.  Egad!  if  one  could  open  a  buremi  to  make  married 
people  single,  one  would  soon  be  a  Croesus!     Well,  then,  this 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  219 

decides  me  to  complete  the  union  between  M.  Goupille  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Courval.  I  had  balanced  a  little  hitherto 
between  the  ejncier  and  the  Vicomte.  Now  I  will  conclude 
matters.  Do  you  know,  Phil,  I  think  you  have  made  a 
conquest?  " 

"Pooh!"  said  Philip,  colouring. 

In  effect,  that  very  evening  Mr.  Love  saw  both  the  ^jncier 
and  Adele,  and  fixed  the  marriage-day.  As  M.  Goupille  was 
a  person  of  great  distinction  in  the  Faubourg,  this  wedding 
was  one  upon  which  Mr.  Love  congratulated  himself  greatly; 
and  he  cheerfully  accepted  an  invitation  for  himself  and  his 
partners  to  honour  the  noces  with  their  presence. 

A  night  or  two  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  marriage  of  M. 
Goupille  and  the  aristocratic  Adele,  when  Mr.  Birnie  had 
retired,  Gawtrey  made  his  usual  preparations  for  enjoying 
himself.  But  this  time  the  cigar  and  the  jjunch  seemed  to 
fail  of  their  effect.  Gawtrey  remained  moody  and  silent; 
anfl.  Morton  was  thinking  of  the  bright  eyes  of  the  lady  who 
was  so  much  interested  against  the  amours  of  the  Vicomte  de 
Vaudemont. 

At  last,  Gawtrey  broke  silence. 

"My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "I  told  you  of  my  little 
proUg&e.  I  have  been  buying  toys  for  her  this  morning;  she 
is  a  beautiful  creature;  to-morrow  is  her  birthday,  — she  will 
then  be  six  years  old.  But  —  but  —  "  here  Gawtrey  sighed  — 
"I  fear  she  is  not  all  right  here,"  and  he  touched  his  forehead. 

"I  should  like  much  to  see  her,"  said  Philip,  not  noticing 
the  latter  remark. 

"And  you  shall  —  you  shall  come  with  me  to-morrow. 
Heigho!    I  should  not  like  to  die,  for  her  sake!" 

"Does  her  wretched  relation  attempt  to  regain  her?" 

"Her  relation!  No;  she  is  no  more,  — she  died  about  two 
years  since!  Poor  Mary!  I  —  well,  this  is  folly.  But  Fanny 
is  at  present  in  a  convent;  they  are  all  kind  to  her,  but  then  I 
pay  well;  if  I  were  dead,  and  the  pay  stopped,  — again  T  ask, 
what  would  become  of  her,  unless,  as  1  before  said,  my 
father  —  " 

"But  you  are  making  a  fortune  now?" 


220  XIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

"If  this  lasts  — yes;  but  I  live  in  fear.  The  police  of  this 
cursed  city  are  lynx-eyed;  however,  that  is  the  bright  side  of 
the  question." 

"  Why  not  have  the  child  with  you,  since  you  love  her  so 
much?     She  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  you." 

"Is  this  a  place  for  a  child  — a  girl?  "  said  Gawtrey,  stamp- 
ing his  foot  impatiently.  "I  should  go  mad  if  I  saw  that 
villanous  deadman's  eye  bent  upon  her!  " 

"You  speak  of  Birnie.     How  can  you  endure  him?" 

"  When  you  are  my  age  you  will  know  why  we  endure  what 
we  dread,  why  we  make  friends  of  those  who  else  would  be 
most  horrible  foes:  no,  no!  nothing  can  deliver  me  of  this 
man  but  Death.  And  — and  — "  added  Gawtrey,  turning 
pale,  "I  cannot  murder  a  man  who  eats  my  bread.  There 
are  stronger  ties,  my  lad,  than  affection,  that  bind  men,  like 
galley-slaves,  together.  He  who  can  hang  you  puts  the  halter 
round  your  neck  and  leads  you  by  it  like  a  dog." 

A  shudder  came  over  the  young  listener.  And  what  dark 
secrets,  known  only  to  those  two,  had  bound,  to  a  man  seem- 
ingly his  subordinate  and  tool,  the  strong  will  and  resolute 
temper  of  William  Gawtrey? 

"  But,  begone,  dull  care ! "  exclaimed  Gawtrey,  rousing 
himself.  "And,  after  all,  Birnie  is  a  useful  fellow,  and 
dare  no  more  turn  against  me  than  I  against  him!  Why 
don't  you  drink  more? 

"  '  Oh,  have  you  e'er  heard  of  the  famed  Captain  Wattle  ?  '  " 

and  Gawtrey  broke  out  into  a  loud  Bacchanalian  hymn,  in 
which  Philip  could  find  no  mirth,  and  from  which  the  song- 
ster suddenly  paused  to  exclaim,  — 

"Mind  you  say  nothing  about  Fanny  to  Birnie;  my  secrets 
with  him  are  not  of  that  nature.  He  could  not  hurt  her,  poor 
lamb!  it  is  true  —  at  least,  as  far  as  I  can  foresee.  But  one 
can  never  feel  too  sure  of  one's  lamb,  if  one  once  introduces 
it  to  the  butcher ! " 

The  next  day  being  Sunday,  the  bureau  was  closed,  and 
Philip  and  Gawtrey  repaired  to  the  convent.  It  was  a  dismal- 
looking  place  as  to  the  exterior;  but,  within,  there  was  a  large 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  221 

garden,  well  kept,  and,  notwithstanding  the  Avinter,  it  seemed 
fair  and  refreshing  compared  with  the  polluted  streets.  The 
window  of  the  room  into  which  they  were  shown  looked  upon 
the  green  sward,  with  walls  covered  with  ivy  at  the  farther 
end.  And  Philip's  own  childhood  came  back  to  him  as  he 
gazed  on  the  quiet  of  the  lonely  place. 

The  door  opened,  an  infant  voice  was  heard,  a  voice  of 
glee,  of  rapture ;  and  a  child,  light  and  beautiful  as  a  fairy, 
bounded  to  Gawtrey's  breast. 

Nestling  there,  she  kissed  his  face,  his  hands,  his  clothes, 
with  a  passion  that  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  her  age,  laugh- 
ing and  sobbing  almost  at  a  breath. 

On  his  part,  Gawtrey  appeared  equally  affected :  he  stroked 
down  her  hair  with  his  huge  hand,  calling  her  all  manner  of 
pet  names,  in  a  tremulous  voice  that  vainly  struggled  to  be 

gay. 

At  length  he  took  the  toys  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
his  capacious  pockets,  and  strewing  them  on  the  floor,  fairly 
stretched  his  vast  bulk  along;  while  the  child  tumbled  over 
him,  sometimes  grasping  at  the  toys,  and  then  again  return- 
ing to  his  bosom,  and  laying  her  head  there,  looked  up  quietly 
into  his  eyes,  as  if  the  joy  were  too  much  for  her. 

Morton,  unheeded  by  both,  stood  by  with  folded  arms.  He 
thought  of  his  lost  and  ungrateful  brother,  and  muttered  to 
himself,  — 

"Fool!  when  she  is  older,  she  will  forsake  him!  " 

Fanny  betrayed  in  her  face  the  Italian  origin  of  her  father. 
She  had  that  exceeding  richness  of  complexion  which,  though 
not  common  even  in  Italy,  is  only  to  be  found  in  the  daughters 
of  that  land,  and  which  harmonized  well  with  the  purple  lustre 
of  her  hair  and  the  full,  clear  iris  of  the  dark  eyes.  Never 
were  parted  cherries  brighter  than  her  dewy  lips;  and  the 
colour  of  the  open  neck  and  the  rounded  arms  was  of  a  white- 
ness still  more  dazzling  from  the  darkness  of  the  hair  and  the 
carnation  of  the  glowing  cheek. 

Suddenly  Fanny  started  from  Gawtrey's  arms,  and  running 
up  to  Morton,  gazed  at  him  wistfully,  and  said,  in  French,  — 

"Who  are  you?    Do  you  come  from  the  moon?    I  think 


222  NIGHT  AXD  MORXING. 

you  do."  Tlien,  stopping  abruptly,  she  broke  into  a  verse  of 
a  nursery-song,  which  she  chanted  with  a  low,  listless  tone, 
as  if  she  were  not  conscious  of  the  sense.  As  she  thus  sang, 
Morton,  looking  at  her,  felt  a  strange  and  painful  doubt  seize 
him.  The  child's  eyes,  though  soft,  were  so  vacant  in  their 
gaze. 

"And  why  do  I  come  from  the  moon?"  said  he. 

"Because  you  look  sad  and  cross.  I  don't  like  you,  I  don't 
like  the  moon ;  it  gives  me  a  pain  here !  "  and  she  put  her 
hand  to  her  temples.  "Have  you  got  anything  for  Fanny,  — 
poor,  poor  Fanny?"  and,  dwelling  on  the  epithet,  she  shook 
her  head  mournfully. 

"You  are  rich,  Fanny,  with  all  those  toys." 

"  Am  I?  Everybody  calls  me  poor  Fanny,  —  everybody  but 
Papa; "  and  she  ran  again  to  Gawtrey,  and  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder, 

"She  calls  me  papa!"  said  Gawtrey,  kissing  her;  "you 
hear  it?    Bless  her!  " 

"And  you  never  kiss  any  one  but  Fanny, — you  have  no 
other  little  girl?"  said  the  child,  earnestly,  and  with  a  look 
less  vacant  than  that  which  had  saddened  Morton. 

"No  other;  no,  nothing  under  heaven,  and  perhaps  above  it, 
but  you!  "  and  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  "But,"  he  added, 
after  a  pause, — "but  mind  me,  Fanny,  you  must  like  this 
gentleman.  He  will  be  always  good  to  you;  and  he  had  a 
little  brother  whom  he  was  as  fond  of  as  I  am  of  you.'' 

"No,  I  won't  like  him;  I  won't  like  anybody  but  you  and 
my  sister!  " 

"Sister!  who  is  your  sister?" 

The  child's  face  relapsed  into  an  expression  almost  of 
idiotcy.  "I  don't  know,  I  never  saw  her.  I  hear  her  some- 
times, but  I  don't  understand  what  she  says.  Hush!  come 
here!  "  and  she  stole  to  the  window  on  tiptoe.  Gawtrey  fol- 
lowed and  looked  out. 

"Do  you  hear  her,  now?"  said  Fanny.  "What  does  she 
say?  " 

As  the  girl  spoke  some  bird  among  the  evergreens  uttered  a 
shrill,  plaintive  cry,  rather  than  song,  —  a  sound  which  the 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  223 

thrush  occasionally  makes  in  the  winter,  and  which  seems  to 
express  something  of  fear  and  pain  and  impatience. 

"What  does  she  say,  — can  you  tell  me?"  asked  the  child. 

"Pooh!  that  is  a  bird;  why  do  you  call  it  your  sister?" 

"I  don't  know!  because  it  is  —  because  it  —  because  —  I 
don't  know  —  is  it  not  in  pain?     Do  something  for  it.  Papa!  " 

Gawtrey  glanced  at  Morton,  whose  face  betokened  his  deep 
pity,  and  creeping  up  to  him,  whispered,  — 

"Do  you  think  she  is  really  touched  here?  No,  no,  she  will 
outgrow  it,  —  I  am  sure  she  will !  " 

Morton  sighed. 

Fanny  by  this  time  had  again  seated  herself  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and  arranged  her  toys,  but  without  seeming  to 
take  pleasure  in  them. 

At  last  Gawtrey  was  obliged  to  depart.  The  lay  sister  who 
had  charge  of  Fanny  was  summoned  into  the  parlour;  and 
then  the  child's  manner  entirely  changed.  Her  face  grew 
purple ;  she  sobbed  with  as  much  anger  as  grief.  "  She  would 
not  leave  Papa;  she  would  not  go,  that  she  would  not!  " 

"It  is  always  so,"  whispered  Gawtrey  to  Morton,  in  an 
abashed  and  apologetic  voice.  "  It  is  so  difficult  to  get  away 
from  her.     Just  go  and  talk  with  her  while  I  steal  out." 

Morton  went  to  her,  as  she  struggled  with  the  patient,  good- 
natured  sister,  and  began  to  soothe  and  caress  her,  till  she 
turned  on  him  her  large  humid  eyes,  and  said  mournfully,  — 

"  Tu  es  mechant,  tic.     Poor  Fanny!  " 

"  But  this  pretty  doll  —  "  began  the  sister. 

The  child  looked  at  it  joylessly. 

"  And  Papa  is  going  to  die !  " 

"Whenever  Monsieur  goes,"  whispered  the  nun,  "she 
always  says  that  he  is  dead,  and  cries  herself  quietly  to 
sleep;  when  Monsieur  returns,  she  says  he  is  come  to  life 
again.  Some  one,  I  suppose,  once  talked  to  her  about  death ; 
and  she  thinks  when  she  loses  sight  of  any  one,  that  that  is 
death." 

"Poor  child!  "  said  Morton,  with  a  trembling  voice. 

The  child  looked  up,  smiled,  stroked  his  cheek  with  her 
little  hand,  and  said,  — 


224  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Thank  you!  Yes!  poor  Fanny!  Ah,  he  is  going  —  see! 
let  me  go  too;  tu  es  vi^chant.^' 

*'But,"  said  Morton,  detaining  her  gently,  "do  you  know 
that  you  give  him  pain?  You  make  him  cry  by  showing  pain 
yourself.     Don't  make  him  so  sad!  " 

The  child  seemed  struck,  hung  down  her  head  for  a  moment, 
as  if  in  thought,  and  then,  jumping  from  Morton's  lap,  ran  to 
Gawtrey,  put  up  her  pouting  lips,  and  said,  — 
"  One  kiss  more !  " 

Gawtrey  kissed  her,  and  turned  away  his  head. 
"  Fanny  is  a  good  girl ! "  and  Fanny,  as  she  spoke,  went 
back  to  Morton,  and  put  her  little  fingers  into  her  eyes,  as  if 
either  to  shut  out  Gawtrey 's  retreat  from  her  sight,  or  to  press 
back  her  tears. 

"Give  me  the  doll  now,  sister  Marie." 

Morton  smiled  and  sighed,  placed  the  child,  who  struggled 
no  more,  in  the  nun's  arms,  and  left  the  room;  but  as  he 
closed  the  door  he  looked  back,  and  saw  that  Fanny  had 
escaped  from  the  sister,  thrown  herself  on  the  floor,  and  was 
crying,  but  not  loud. 

"Is  she  not  a  little  darling?"  said  Gawtrey,  as  they  gained 
the  street. 

"  She  is,  indeed,  a  most  beautiful  child !  " 
"And  you  will  love  her  if  I  leave  her  penniless,"  said 
Gawtrey,  abruptly.  "  It  was  your  love  for  your  mother  and 
your  brother  that  made  me  like  i/02t  from  the  first.  Ay,"  con- 
tinued Gawtrey,  in  a  tone  of  great  earnestness,  —  "  ay,  and 
whatever  may  happen  to  me,  I  will  strive  and  keep  you,  my 
poor  lad,  harmless;  and  what  is  better,  innocent  even  of  such 
matters  as  sit  light  enough  on  my  own  well-seasoned  con- 
science. In  turn,  if  ever  j'ou  have  the  power,  be  good  to  her, 
—  yes,  be  good  to  her!  and  I  won't  say  a  harsh  word  to  you 
if  ever  you  like  to  turn  king's  evidence  against  myself." 

"Gawtrey!"  said  Morton,  reproachfully,  and  almost 
fiercely. 

"Bah!  such  things  are!  But  tell  me  honestly,  do  you 
think  she  is  verj/  strange,  very  deficient?  " 

"I  have  not  seen  enough  of  her  to  judge,"  answered  Morton, 
evasively. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  225 

"She  is  so  changeful,"  persisted  Gawtrey.  "Sometimes 
you  would  say  that  she  was  above  her  age,  she  comes  out 
with  such  thoughtful,  clever  things ;  then,  the  next  moment, 
she  throws  me  into  despair.  These  nuns  are  very  skilful  in 
education,  —  at  least,  they  are  said  to  be  so.  The  doctors 
give  me  hope,  too.  You  see,  her  poor  mother  was  very  un- 
happy at  the  time  of  her  birth,  —  delirious,  indeed ;  that  may 
account  for  it.  I  often  fancy  that  it  is  the  constant  excite- 
ment which  her  state  occasions  me  that  makes  me  love  her  so 
much.  You  see  she  is  one  who  can  never  shift  for  herself.  I 
must  get  money  for  her;  I  have  left  a  little  already  with  the 
superior,  and  I  would  not  touch  it  to  save  myself  from  famine ! 
If  she  has  money  people  will  be  kind  enough  to  her.  And 
then,"  continued  Gawtrey,  "you  must  perceive  that  she  loves 
nothing  in  the  world  but  me,  —  me,  whom  nobody  else  loves ! 
Well,  well,  now  to  the  shop  again !  " 

On  returning  home  the  bonne  informed  them  that  a  lady 
had  called,  and  asked  both  for  M.  Love  and  the  young  gentle- 
man, and  seemed  much  chagrined  at  missing  both.  By  the 
description,  Morton  guessed  she  was  the  fair  incognita,  and 
felt  disappointed  at  having  lost  the  interview. 


CHAPTER  V. 


The  cursed  carle  was  at  his  wonted  trade, 

Still  tempting  heedless  men  into  his  snare, 

In  witching  wise,  as  I  before  have  said ; 

But  when  he  saw,  in  goodly  gear  array'd. 

The  grave  majestic  knight  approaching  nigh. 

His  countenance  fell.  —  Thomson  :  Castle  of  Indolence. 

The  morning  rose  that  was  to  unite  M.  Goupille  with 
Mademoiselle  Adele  de  Courval.  The  ceremony  was  per- 
formed, and  bride  and  bridegroom  went  through  that  trying 
ordeal  with  becoming  gravity.  Only  the  elegant  Adele 
seemed  more  unaffectedly  agitated  than  Mr.  Love  could 
15 


226  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

well  account  for;  she  was  very  nervous  in  cliurcli,  and  more 
often  turned  her  eyes  to  the  door  than  to  the  altar.  Perhaps 
she  wanted  to  run  away;  but  it  was  either  too  late  or  too 
early  for  the  proceeding.  The  rite  performed,  the  happy 
pair  and  their  friends  adjourned  to  the  Cadran  Bleu,  that 
restaurant  so  celebrated  in  the  festivities  of  the  good  citizens 
of  Paris.  Here  Mr.  Love  had  ordered,  at  the  epicier^s  ex- 
pense, a  most  tasteful  entertainment. 

"  Sucre  !  but  you  have  not  played  the  economist.  Monsieur 
Lofe,"  said  M.  Goupille,  rather  querulously,  as  he  glanced  at 
the  long  room  adorned  with  artificial  flowers,  and  the  table 
a  cinqitante  converts. 

"Bah!"  replied  Mr.  Love,  "you  can  retrench  afterwards. 
"Think  of  the  fortune  she  brought  you." 

"It  is  a  pretty  sum,  certainly,"  said  M.  Goupille,  "and  the 
notary  is  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  There  is  not  a  marriage  in  Paris  that  does  me  more  credit," 
said  Mr.  Love;  and  he  marched  off  to  receive  the  compliments 
and  congratulations  that  awaited  him  among  such  of  the 
guests  as  were  aware  of  his  good  offices.  The  Vicomte  de 
Vaudemont  was  of  course  not  present.  He  had  not  been  near 
Mr.  Love  since  Adele  had  accepted  the  Spicier.  But  Madame 
Beavor,  in  a  white  bonnet  lined  with  lilac,  was  hanging,  sen- 
timentally, on  the  arm  of  the  Pole,  who  looked  very  grand 
with  his  white  favour;  and  Mr.  Higgins  had  been  introduced 
by  Mr.  Love  to  a  little  dark  Creole,  who  wore  paste  diamonds, 
and  had  very  languishing  eyes;  so  that  Mr.  Love's  heart  might 
well  swell  with  satisfaction  at  the  prospect  of  the  various 
blisses  to  come,  which  might  owe  their  origin  to  his  benevo- 
lence. In  fact,  that  arch-priest  of  the  Temple  of  Hymen  was 
never  more  great  than  he  was  that  day;  never  did  his  estab- 
lishment seem  more  solid,  his  reputation  more  popular,  or  his 
fortune  more  sure.     He  was  the  life  of  the  party. 

The  banquet  over,  the  revellers  prepared  for  a  dance.  M. 
Goupille,  in  tights,  still  tighter  than  he  usually  wore,  and  of 
a  rich  nankeen,  quite  new,  with  striped  silk  stockings,  opened 
the  ball  with  the  lady  of  a  rich  patissier  in  the  same  Fau- 
bourg; M.  Love  took  out  the  bride.     The  evening  advanced; 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  227 

and  after  several  other  dances  of  ceremony,  M.  Goupille  con- 
ceived himself  entitled  to  dedicate  one  to  connubial  affection. 
A  country-dance  was  called,  and  the  Spicier  claimed  the  fair 
hand  of  the  gentle  Adele.  About  this  time,  two  persons,  not 
hitherto  perceived,  had  quietly  entered  the  room,  and,  stand- 
ing near  the  doorway,  seemed  examining  the  dancers,  as  if  in 
search  for  some  one.  They  bobbed  their  heads  up  and  down, 
to  and  fro,  now  stopped,  now  stood  on  tiptoe.  The  one  was 
a  tall,  large-whiskered,  fair-haired  man;  the  other,  a  little, 
thin,  neatly-dressed  person,  who  kept  his  hand  on  the  arm  of 
his  companion,  and  whispered  to  him  from  time  to  time.  The 
whiskered  gentleman  replied  in  a  guttural  tone,  which  pro- 
claimed his  origin  to  be  German.  The  busy  dancers  did  not 
perceive  the  strangers.  The  bystanders  did,  and  a  hum  of 
curiosity  circled  round;  who  could  they  be?  Who  had  invited 
them?  They  were  new  faces  in  the  Faubourg,  —  perhaps  rela- 
tions to  Adele? 

In  high  delight  the  fair  bride  was  skipping  down  the  middle, 
while  M.  Goupille,  wiping  his  forehead  with  care,  admired 
her  agility;  when,  lo  and  behold!  the  whiskered  gentleman  I 
have  described  abruptly  advanced  from  his  companion,  and 
cried,  — 

"  La  voila !    sacre  tonnerre !  " 

At  that  voice,  at  that  apparition,  the  bride  halted;  so  sud- 
denly indeed,  that  she  had  not  time  to  put  down  both  feet,  but 
remained  with  one  high  in  the  air,  while  the  other  sustained 
itself  on  the  light  fantastic  toe.  The  company  naturally 
imagined  this  to  be  an  operatic  flourish,  which  called  for 
approbation.  M.  Love,  who  was  thundering  down  behind 
her,  cried,  "Bravo!"  and  as  the  well-grown  gentleman  had 
to  make  a  sweep  to  avoid  disturbing  her  equilibrium,  he 
came  full  against  the  whiskered  stranger,  and  sent  him  off 
as  a  bat  sends  a  ball. 

"J/oTi  Dieu!'"  cried  M.  Goupille.  "J/a  douce  amie!  she 
has  fainted  away !  "  And,  indeed,  Adele  had  no  sooner  recov- 
ered her  balance  than  she  resigned  it  once  more  into  the  arms 
of  the  startled  Pole,  who  was  happily  at  hand. 

In   the  meantime,   the  German  stranger,   who   had   saved 


228  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

himself  from  falling  by  coming  with  his  full  force  upon  the 
toes  of  Mr.  Higgins,  again  advanced  to  the  spot,  and  rudely 
seizing  the  fair  bride  by  the  arm,  exclaimed,  — 

"No  sham  if  you  please,  Madame!  speak!  What  the  devil 
have  you  done  with  the  money?" 

"Really,  sir,"  said  M.  Goupille,  drawing  up  his  cravat, 
"this  is  very  extraordinary  conduct!  What  have  you  got  to 
say  to  this  lady's  money?  —  it  is  my  money  now,  sir!  " 

"Oho!  it  is,  is  it?  we'll  soon  see  that.  Approchez  done. 
Monsieur  Favart,  faites  votre  devoir."  ^ 

At  these  words  the  small  companion  of  the  stranger  slowly 
sauntered  to  the  spot,  while  at  the  sound  of  his  name  and  the 
tread  of  his  step  the  throng  gave  way  to  the  right  and  left. 
For  M.  Favart  was  one  of  the  most  renowned  chiefs  of  the 
great  Parisian  police,  — a  man  worthy  to  be  the  contemporary 
of  the  illustrious  Vidocq. 

"  Calmez  vous,  messieurs ;  do  not  be  alarmed,  ladies,"  said 
this  gentleman,  in  the  mildest  of  all  human  voices ;  and  cer- 
tainly no  oil  dropped  on  the  waters  ever  produced  so  tranquil- 
lizing an  effect  as  that  small,  feeble,  gentle  tenor.  The  Pole, 
in  especial,  who  was  holding  the  fair  bride  with  both  his  arms, 
shook  all  over,  and  seemed  about  to  let  his  burden  gradually 
slide  to  the  floor,  when  M.  Favart,  looking  at  him  with  a 
benevolent  smile,  said,  — 

"Aha,  mon  brave!  c'est  toi.  Restez  done.  Eestez,  tenant 
toujours  la  dame !  "  "^ 

The  Pole,  thus  condemned,  in  the  French  idiom,  '^always 
to  hold  the  dame,^'  mechanically  raised  the  arms  he  had  pre- 
viously dejected,  and  the  police  officer,  with  an  approving  nod 
of  the  head,  said,  — 

"Bon!  ne  bougez  point;  c'est  9a!  "^ 

M.  Goupille,  in  equal  surprise  and  indignation  to  see  his 
better  half  thus  consigned,  without  any  care  to  his  own  mari- 
tal feelings,  to  the  arms  of  another,  was  about  to  snatch  her 

*  "Approach,  then,  Monsieur  Favart,  and  do  your  duty." 
2  "  Aha,  my  fine  fellow  !   it  '9  you.     Stay,  then.     Stay,  always  holding  the 
dame." 

8  "Good!    don't  stir;   that 's  it." 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  229 

from  the  Pole,  when  M.  Favart,  touching  him  on  the  breast 
with  his  little  finger,  said,  in  the  suavest  manner,  — 

"3io»  bourgeois,  meddle  not  with  what  does  not  concern 
you!" 

"  With  what  does  not  concern  me  !  "  repeated  M.  Goupille, 
drawing  himself  up  to  so  great  a  stretch  that  he  seemed  pull- 
ing off  his  tights  the  wrong  way.  "Explain  yourself,  if  you 
please!     This  lady  is  my  wife!  " 

"Say  that  again,  —  that 's  all!"  cried  the  whiskered 
stranger,  in  most  horrible  French,  and  with  a  furious  grim- 
ace, as  he  shook  both  his  fists  just  under  the  nose  of  the 
ipicier. 

"Say  it  again,  sir,"  said  M.  Goupille,  by  no  means  daunted; 
"and  why  should  I  not  say  it  again?     That  lady  is  my  wife!  " 

"You  lie!  she  is  mine/"  cried  the  German;  and  bending 
down,  he  caught  the  fair  Adele  from  the  Pole  with  as  little 
ceremony  as  if  she  had  never  had  a  great-grandfather  a  mar- 
quis, and  giving  her  a  shake  that  might  have  roused  the  dead, 
thundered  out,  — 

"Speak!  Madame  Bihl!     Are  you  my  wife  or  not?" 

'^Monstref"  murmured  Adele,  opening  her  eyes. 

"There!  you  hear!  she  owns  me!  "  said  the  German,  appeal- 
ing to  the  company  with  a  triumphant  air. 

"C'est  vrai!  "  said  the  soft  voice  of  the  policeman.  "And 
now,  pray,  don't  let  us  disturb  your  amusements  any  longer. 
We  have  a  fiacre  at  the  door.  Eemove  your  lady.  Monsieur 
Bihl." 

"Monsieur  Lofe!  Monsieur  Lofe!  "  cried,  or  rather 
screeched,  the  epicier,  darting  across  the  room,  and  seizing 
the  chef  by  the  tail  of  his  coat,  just  as  he  was  half  way 
through  the  door,  "  come  back !  Quelle  mauvaise  plaisanterie 
me  faites-vous  ici?i  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  lady  was  sin- 
gle? Am  I  married  or  not?  Do  I  stand  on  my  head  or  my 
heels?" 

"Hush!  hush!  mon  hon  bourgeois!"  whispered  Mr.  Love; 
"  all  shall  be  explained  to-morrow !  " 

"Who  is  this  gentleman?"  asked  M.  Favart,  approaching 
1  "  What  scun'v  trick  is  this  you  're  playing  me  ]  " 


230  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Mr.  Love,  who,  seeing  himself  in  for  it,  suddenly  jerked  off 
the  epicier,  thrust  his  hands  down  into  his  breeches'  pockets, 
buried  his  chin  in  his  cravat,  elevated  his  eyebrows,  screwed  in 
his  eyes,  and  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  so  that  the  astonished 
M.  Goupille  really  thought  himself  bewitched,  and  literally 
did  not  recognize  the  face  of  the  match-maker. 

''Who  is  this  gentleman?"  repeated  the  little  officer,  stand- 
ing beside,  or  rather  below,  Mr.  Love,  and  looking  so  diminu- 
tive by  the  contrast,  that  you  might  have  fancied  that  the 
Priest  of  Hymen  had  only  to  breathe  to  blow  him  away. 

"Who  should  he  be, Monsieur?"  cried,  with  great  pertness, 
Madame  Rosalie  Caumartin,  coming  to  the  relief,  with  the 
generosity  of  her  sex.  "This  is  M.  Lofe, — Anglais  celehre. 
What  have  you  to  say  against  him?  " 

"He  has  got  five  hundred  francs  of  mine!"  cried  the 
epicier. 

The  policeman  scanned  Mr.  Love,  with  great  attention. 
"So  you  are  in  Paris  again?  —  Hein!  vous  jouez  toujours 
votre  role !  " ^ 

"■Uafoif"  said  Mr.  Love,  boldly;  "I  don't  understand 
what  Monsieur  means ;  my  character  is  well  known,  —  go 
and  inquire  it  in  London,  ask  the  Secretary  of  Foreign 
Affairs  what  is  said  of  me,  inquire  of  my  Ambassador, 
demand  of  my  —  " 

"Votre  passeport.  Monsieur?" 

"  It  is  at  home.  A  gentleman  does  not  carry  his  passport 
in  his  pocket  when  he  goes  to  a  ball !  " 

"I  will  call  and  see  it.  Au  revoir !  Take  my  advice  and 
leave  Paris ;  I  think  I  have  seen  you  somewhere !  " 

"  Yet  I  have  never  had  the  honour  to  marry  Monsieur !  " 
said  Mr.  Love,  with  a  polite  bow. 

In  return  for  his  joke,  the  policeman  gave  Mr.  Love  one 
look.  It  was  a  quiet  look,  very  quiet;  but  Mr.  Love  seemed 
uncommonly  affected  by  it;  he  did  not  say  another  word,  but 
found  himself  outside  the  house  in  a  twinkling.  M.  Favart 
turned  round  and  saw  the  Pole  making  himself  as  small  as 
possible  behind  the  goodly  proportions  of  Madame  Beavor. 
1  "  You  're  always  acting  your  part." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  231 

"What  name  does  that  gentleman  go  by?" 

"So — vo — lofski,  the  heroic  Pole,"  cried  Madame  Beavor, 
with  sundry  misgivings  at  the  unexpected  cowardice  of  so 
great  a  patriot. 

""Hein!  take  care  of  yourselves,  ladies.  I  have  nothing 
against  that  person  this  time.  But  M.  Latour  has  served  his 
apprenticeship  at  the  galleys,  and  is  no  more  a  Pole  than  I  am 
a  Jew." 

"And  this  lady's  fortune!  "  cried  M.  Goupille,  pathetically; 
"the  settlements  are  all  made,  the  notaries  all  paid.  I  am 
sure  there  must  be  some  mistake." 

M.  Bihl,  who  had  by  this  time  restored  his  lost  Helen  to 
her  senses,  stalked  up  to  the  epicier,  dragging  the  lady  along 
with  him. 

"Sir,  there  is  no  mistake!  But  when  I  have  got  the  money, 
if  you  like  to  have  the  lady  you  are  welcome  to  her." 

"  Monstre  !  "  again  muttered  the  fair  Adele. 

"The  long  and  the  short  of  it,"  said  M.  Favart,  "is  that  M. 
Bihl  is  a  brave  gargon,  and  has  been  half  over  the  world  as 
a  courier." 

"A  courier!  "  exclaimed  several  voices. 

"Madame  was  nursery-governess  to  an  English  milord. 
They  married,  and  quarrelled,  —  no  harm  in  that,  mes  amis  ; 
nothing  more  common.  M.  Bihl  is  a  very  faithful  fellow; 
nursed  his  last  master  in  an  illness  that  ended  fatally,  because 
he  travelled  with  his  doctor.  Milord  left  him  a  handsome 
legacy;  he  retired  from  service,  and  fell  ill  perhaps  from  idle- 
ness or  beer.     Is  not  that  the  story.  Monsieur  Bihl?" 

"He  was  always  drunk,  — the  wretch!  "  sobbed  Adele. 

"That  was  to  drown  my  domestic  sorrows,"  said  the  Ger- 
man; "and  when  I  was  sick  in  my  bed,  Madame  ran  off  with 
my  money.  Thanks  to  Monsieur,  I  have  found  both,  and  I 
wish  you  a  very  good  night." 

"Dansez-vous  toujours,  mes  amis,"  said  the  officer,  bowing. 
And  following  Adele  and  her  spouse,  the  little  man  left  the 
room,  — where  he  had  caused,  in  chests  so  broad  and  limbs  so 
doughty,  much  the  same  consternation  as  that  which  some 
diminutive  ferret  occasions  in  a  burrow  of  rabbits  twice  his 
size. 


232  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Morton  had  outstayed  Mr.  Love;  but  he  thought  it  unneces- 
sary to  linger  long  after  that  gentleman's  departure ;  and  in 
the  general  hubbub  that  ensued,  he  crept  out  unperceived,  and 
soon  arrived  at  the  bureau.  He  found  Mr.  Love  and  Mr. 
Birnie  already  engaged  in  packing  up  their  effects. 

"Why!  when  did  you  leave?"  said  Morton  to  Mr.  Birnie. 

*'I  saw  the  policeman  enter." 

"And  why  the  deuce  did  not  you  tell  us?"  said  Gawtrey. 

"  Every  man  for  himself.  Besides,  Mr.  Love  was  dancing, " 
replied  Mr.  Birnie,  with  a  dull  glance  of  disdain. 

"Philosophy,"  muttered  Gawtrey,  thrusting  his  dress-coat 
into  his  trunk;  then,  suddenly  changing  his  voice,  "Ha!  ha! 
it  was  a  very  good  joke  after  all,  —  own  I  did  it  well.  Ecod! 
if  he  had  not  given  me  that  look,  I  think  I  should  have  turned 
the  tables  on  him.  But  those  d — d  fellows  learn  of  the  mad 
doctors  how  to  tame  us.  Faith,  my  heart  went  down  to  my 
shoes ;  yet  I  'm  no  coward !  " 

"  But  after  all  he  evidently  did  not  know  you, "  said  Mor- 
ton; "and  what  has  he  to  say  against  you?  Your  trade  is  a 
strange  one,  but  not  dishonest.     Why  give  up  as  if —  " 

"My  young  friend,"  interrupted  Gawtrey,  "whether  the 
officer  comes  after  us  or  not,  our  trade  is  ruined ;  that  infer- 
nal Adele,  with  her  fabulous  grandmaman,  has  done  for  us. 
Goupille  will  blow  the  temple  about  our  ears.  No  help  for  it, 
—  eh,  Birnie?" 

"None." 

"  Go  to  bed,  Philip :  we  '11  call  thee  at  daybreak,  for  we 
must  make  clear  work  before  our  neighbours  open  their 
shutters." 

Eeclined,  but  half  undressed,  on  his  bed  in  the  little 
cabinet,  Morton  revolved  the  events  of  the  evening.  The 
thought  that  he  should  see  no  more  of  that  white  hand  and 
that  lovely  mouth,  which  still  haunted  his  recollection  as 
appertaining  to  the  incognita,  greatly  indisposed  him  towards 
the  abrupt  flight  intended  by  Gawtrey,  while  (so  much  had 
his  faith  in  that  person  depended  upon  respect  for  his  confi- 
dent daring,  and  so  thoroughly  fearless  was  Morton's  own 
nature)  he  felt  himself  greatly  shaken  in  his  allegiance  to  the 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  233 

chief,  by  recollecting  the  effect  produced  on  his  valour  by  a 
single  glance  from  the  instrument  of  law.  He  had  not  yet 
lived  long  enough  to  be  aware  that  men  are  sometimes  the 
Representatives  of  Things ;  that  what  the  scytale  was  to  the 
Spartan  hero,  a  sheriff's  writ  often  is  to  a  Waterloo  medallist; 
that  a  Bow  Street  runner  will  enter  the  foulest  den  where 
Murder  sits  with  his  fellows,  and  pick  out  his  prey  with  the 
beck  of  his  forefinger;  that,  in  short,  the  thing  called  Law, 
once  made  tangible  and  present,  rarely  fails  to  palsy  the  fierce 
heart  of  the  thing  called  Crime.  For  Law  is  the  symbol  of 
all  mankind  reared  against  One  Foe,  —  the  Man  of  Crime. 
Not  yet  aware  of  this  truth,  nor,  indeed,  in  the  least  suspect- 
ing Gawtrey  of  worse  offences  than  those  of  a  charlatanic  and 
equivocal  profession,  the  young  man  mused  over  his  pro- 
tector's cowardice  in  disdain  and  wonder;  till,  wearied  with 
conjectures,  distrust,  and  shame  at  his  own  strange  position 
of  obligation  to  one  whom  he  could  not  respect,  he  fell 
asleep. 

When  he  woke,  he  saw  the  gray  light  of  dawn  that  streamed 
cheerlessly  through  his  shutterless  window  struggling  with 
the  faint  ray  of  a  candle  that  Gawtrey,  shading  with  his  hand, 
held  over  the  sleeper.  He  started  up,  and,  in  the  confusion 
of  waking  and  the  imperfect  light  by  which  he  beheld  the 
strong  features  of  Gawtrey,  half  imagined  it  was  a  foe  who 
stood  before  him. 

"  Take  care,  man !  "  said  Gawtrey,  as  Morton,  in  this  belief, 
grasped  his  arm.  "You  have  a  precious  rough  gripe  of  your 
own.  Be  quiet,  will  you?  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you." 
Here  Gawtrey,  placing  the  candle  on  a  chair,  returned  to 
the  door  and  closed  it. 

"Look  you,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "I  have  nearly  run 
through  my  circle  of  invention,  and  my  wit,  fertile  as  it  is, 
can  present  to  me  little  encouragement  in  the  future.  The 
eyes  of  this  Favart  once  on  me,  every .  disguise  and  every 
double  will  not  long  avail.  I  dare  not  return  to  London ;  I 
am  too  well  known  in  Brussels,  Berlin,  and  Vienna  —  " 

"But,"  interrupted  Morton,  raising  himself  on  his  arm, 
and  fixing  his  dark  eyes  upon  his  host,  —  "  but  you  have  told 


234  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

me  again  and  again  that  you  have  committed  no  crime ;  why- 
then  be  so  fearful  of  discovery?" 

"Why,"  repeated  Gawtrey,  with  a  slight  hesitation  which 
he  instantly  overcame,  "  why !  have  not  you  yourself  learned 
that  appearances  have  the  effect  of  crimes?  Were  you  not 
chased  as  a  thief  when  I  rescued  you  from  your  foe  the  law? 
Are  you  not,  though  a  boy  in  years,  under  an  alias,  and  an 
exile  from  your  own  land?  And  how  can  you  put  these 
austere  questions  to  me,  who  am  growing  gray  in  the  en- 
deavour to  extract  sunbeams  from  cucumbers,  subsistence  from 
poverty?  I  repeat  that  there  are  reasons  why  I  must  avoid, 
for  the  present,  the  great  capitals.  I  must  sink  in  life,  and 
take  to  the  provinces.  Birnie  is  sanguine  as  ever;  but  he  is  a 
terrible  sort  of  comforter!  Enough  of  that.  Now  to  your- 
self: our  savings  are  less  than  you  might  expect;  to  be  sure, 
Birnie  has  been  treasurer,  and  I  have  laid  by  a  little  for 
Fanny,  which  I  will  rather  starve  than  touch.  There  remain, 
however,  one  hundred  and  fifty  napoleons,  and  our  effects, 
sold  at  a  fourth  their  value,  will  fetch  one  hundred  and  fifty 
more.  Here  is  your  share.  I  have  compassion  on  you.  I 
told  you  I  would  bear  you  harmless  and  innocent.  Leave  us 
while  yet  time." 

It  seemed,  then,  to  Morton  that  Gawtrey  had  divined  his 
thoughts  of  shame  and  escape  of  the  previous  night;  perhaps 
Gawtrey  had :  and  such  is  the  human  heart,  that,  instead  of 
welcoming  the  very  release  he  had  half  contemplated,  now 
that  it  was  offered  him  Philip  shrank  from  it  as  a  base 
desertion. 

"  Poor  Gawtrey !  "  said  he,  pushing  back  the  canvas  bag  of 
gold  held  out  to  him,  "you  shall  not  go  over  the  world,  and 
feel  that  the  orphan  you  fed  and  fostered  left  you  to  starve 
with  your  money  in  his  pocket.  When  you  again  assure  me 
that  you  have  committed  no  crime,  you  again  remind  me  that 
gratitude  has  no  right  to  be  severe  upon  the  shifts  and  errors 
of  its  benefactor.  If  you  do  not  conform  to  society,  what  has 
society  done  for  me?  No!  I  will  not  forsake  you  in  a  reverse. 
Fortune  has  given  you  a  fall.  What,  then !  courage,  and  at 
her  again ! " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  2o5 

These  last  words  were  said  so  heartily  and  cheerfully  as 
Morton  sprang  from  the  bed,  that  they  inspirited  Gawtrey, 
who  had  really  desponded  of  his  lot. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  reject  the  only  friend  left  me; 
and  while  1  live—  But  I  will  make  no  professions.  Quick, 
then,  our  luggage  is  already  gone,  and  1  hear  Birnie  grunting 
the  rogue's  march  of  retreat." 

Morton's  toilet  was  soon  completed,  and  the  three  associates 
bade  adieu  to  the  bureau. 

Birnie,  who  was  taciturn  and  impenetrable  as  ever,  walked 
a  little  before  as  guide.  They  arrived  at  length  at  a  serrurler's 
shop,  placed  in  an  alley  near  the  Porte  St.  Denis.  The  ser- 
rurier  himself,  a  tall,  begrimed,  black-bearded  man,  was  tak- 
ing the  shutters  from  his  shop  as  they  approached.  He  and 
Birnie  exchanged  silent  nods;  and  the  former,  leaving  his 
work,  conducted  them  up  a  very  filthy  flight  of  stairs  to  an 
attic,  where  a  bed,  two  stools,  one  table,  and  an  old  walnut- 
tree  bureau  formed  the  sole  articles  of  furniture.  Gawtrey 
looked  rather  ruefully  round  the  black,  low,  damp  walls,  and 
said  in  a  crestfallen  tone,  — 

"  We  were  better  off  at  the  Temple  of  Hymen.  But  get  us 
a  bottle  of  wine,  some  eggs,  and  a  frying-pan.  By  Jove,  I 
am  a  capital  hand  at  an  omelet!  " 

The  serrurier  nodded  again,  grinned,  and  withdrew. 

"Rest  here,"  said  Birnie,  in  his  calm,  passionless  voice, 
that  seemed  to  Morton,  how^ever,  to  assume  an  unwonted  tone 
of  command.  "  I  will  go  and  make  the  best  bargain  1  can  for 
our  furniture,  buy  fresh  clothes,  and  engage  our  places  for 
Tours." 

"For  Tours?"  repeated  Morton. 

"Yes,  there  are  some  English  there;  one  can  live  wherever 
there  are  English,"  said  Gawtrey. 

"Hum!"  grunted  Birnie,  dryly,  and,  buttoning  up  his  coat, 
he  walked  slowly  away. 

About  noon  he  returned  with  a  bundle  of  clothes,  which 
Gawtrey,  who  always  regained  his  elasticity  of  spirit  wher- 
ever there  was  fair  play  to  his  talents,  examined  with  great 
attention,  and  many  exclamations  of  ^^ Bon!  c'est  ga." 


236  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"1  have  done  well  with  the  Jew,"  said  Birnie,  drawing 
from  his  coat  pocket  two  heavy  bags.  "One  hundred  and 
eighty  napoleons.     We  shall  commence  with  a  good  capital!  " 

"You  are  right,  my  friend,"  said  Gawtrey. 

The  serrurier  was  then  despatched  to  the  best  restaurant  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  the  three  adventurers  made  a  less 
Socratic  dinner  than  might  have  been  expected. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Then  out  agaiu  he  flies  to  wing  his  mazy  ronnd. 

Thomson  ;   Castle  of  Indolence. 

Again  he  gazed.     "  It  is,"  said  he,  "  the  same  ; 

There  sits  he  upright  in  his  seat  secure, 

As  one  whose  conscience  is  correct  and  pure." —  Crabbe. 

The  adventurers  arrived  at  Tours,  and  established  them- 
selves there  in  a  lodging,  without  any  incident  worth  narrat- 
ing by  the  way. 

At  Tours  Morton  had  nothing  to  do  but  take  his  pleasure 
and  enjoy  himself.  He  passed  for  a  young  heir;  Gawtrey  for 
his  tutor, — a  doctor  in  divinity;  Birnie  for  his  valet.  The 
task  of  maintenance  fell  on  Gawtrey,  who  hit  off  his  character 
to  a  hair;  larded  his  grave  jokes  with  University  scraps  of 
Latin;  looked  big  and  well-fed;  wore  knee-breeches  and  a 
shovel  hat;  and  played  whist  with  the  skill  of  a  veteran 
vicar.  By  his  science  in  that  game  he  made,  at  first,  enough 
at  least  to  defray  their  weekly  expenses.  But  by  degrees,  the 
good  people  at  Tours,  who,  under  pretence  of  health,  were 
there  for  economy,  grew  shy  of  so  excellent  a  player;  and 
though  Gawtrey  always  swore  solemnly  that  he  played  with 
the  most  scrupulous  honour  (an  asseveration  which  Morton,  at 
least,  implicitly  believed),  and  no  proof  to  the  contrary  was 
ever  detected,  yet  a  first-rate  card-player  is  always  a  suspi- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  237 

cious  character,  unless  the  losing  parties  know  exactly  who  he 
is.  The  market  fell  off,  and  Gaw*trey  at  length  thought  it 
prudent  to  extend  their  travels. 

"  Ah!  "  said  Mr.  Gawtrey,  "the  world  nowadays  has  grown 
so  ostentatious  that  one  cannot  travel  advantageously  without 
a  post-chariot  and  four  horses."  At  length  they  found  them- 
selves at  Milan,  which  at  that  time  was  one  of  the  El  Dorados 
for  gamesters.  Here,  however,  for  want  of  introductions,  Mr. 
Gawtrey  found  it  difficult  to  get  into  society.  The  nobles, 
proud  and  rich,  played  high,  but  were  circumspect  in  their 
company;  the  bourgeoisie,  industrious  and  energetic,  preserved 
much  of  the  old  Lombard  shrewdness;  there  were  no  tables 
d'hote  and  public  reunions.  Gawtrey  saw  his  little  capital 
daily  diminishing,  with  the  Alps  at  the  rear  and  Poverty  in  the 
van.  At  length,  always  on  the  qui  vive,  he  contrived  to  make 
acquaintance  with  a  Scotch  family  of  great  respectability. 
He  effected  this  by  picking  up  a  snuff-box  which  the  Scotch- 
man had  dropped  in  taking  out  his  handkerchief.  This  polite- 
ness paved  the  way  to  a  conversation  in  which  Gawtrey  made 
himself  so  agreeable,  and  talked  with  such  zest  of  the  Modern 
Athens,  and  the  tricks  practised  upon  travellers,  that  he  was 
presented  to  Mrs.  Macgregor.  Cards  were  interchanged;  and, 
as  Mr.  Gawtrey  lived  in  tolerable  style,  the  Macgregors  pro- 
nounced him  "a  vara  genteel  mon."  Once  in  the  house  of  a 
respectable  person,  Gawtrey  contrived  to  turn  himself  round 
and  round,  till  he  burrowed  a  hole  into  the  English  circle  then 
settled  in  Milan.  His  whist-playing  came  into  requisition, 
and  once  more  Fortune  smiled  upon  Skill. 

To  this  house  the  pupil  one  evening  accompanied  the  tutor. 
When  the  whist  party,  consisting  of  two  tables,  was  formed, 
the  young  man  found  himself  left  out  with  an  old  gentleman, 
who  seemed  loquacious  and  good-natured,  and  who  put  many 
questions  to  Morton,  which  he  found  it  difficult  to  answer. 
One  of  the  whist  tables  was  now  in  a  state  of  revolution, 
namely,  a  lady  had  cut  out  and  a  gentleman  cut  in,  when  the 
door  opened,  and  Lord  Lilburne  was  announced. 

Mr.  Macgregor,  rising,  advanced  with  great  respect  to  this 
personage. 


238  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"I  scarcely  ventured  to  hope  you  would  coom,  Lord  Lil- 
burne,  the  night  is  so  cold:" 

"  You  did  not  allow  sufficiently,  then,  for  the  dulness  of  my 
solitary  inn  and  the  attractions  of  your  circle.  Aha!  whist, 
I  see." 

"You  play  sometimes?" 

"Very  seldom,  now;  I  have  sown  all  my  wild  oats,  and 
even  the  ace  of  spades  can  scarcely  dig  them  out  again." 

"Ha!  ha!  vara  gude." 

"I  will  look  on; "  and  Lord  Lilburne  drew  his  chair  to  the 
table,  exactly  opposite  to  Mr.  Gawtrey. 

The  old  gentleman  turned  to  Philip. 

"  An  extraordinary  man,  Lord  Lilburne ;  you  have  heard  of 
him,  of  course?" 

"No,  indeed;  what  of  him?"  asked  the  young  man,  rousing 
himself. 

"What  of  him?"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  smile; 
"why,  the  newspapers,  if  you  ever  read  them,  will  tell  you 
enough  of  the  elegant,  the  witt}'-  Lord  Lilburne;  a  man  of 
eminent  talent,  though  indolent.  He  was  wild  in  his  youth, 
as  clever  men  often  are ;  but  on  attaining  his  title  and  f ortvme, 
and  marrying  into  the  family  of  the  then  premier,  he  became 
more  sedate.  They  say  he  might  make  a  great  figure  in  poli- 
tics if  he  would.  He  has  a  very  high  reputation,  —  very. 
People  do  say  that  he  is  still  fond  of  pleasure ;  but  that  is  a 
common  failing  amongst  the  aristocracy.  Morality  is  only 
found  in  the  middle  classes,  young  gentleman.  It  is  a  lucky 
family,  that  of  Lilburne;  his  sister,  Mrs.  Beaufort  — " 

"Beaufort!  "  exclaimed  Morton,  and  then  muttered  to  him- 
self, "Ah,  true,  true;  I  have  heard  the  name  of  Lilburne 
before." 

"Do  you  know  the  Beauforts?  Well,  you  remember  how 
luckily  Kobert,  Lilburne's  brother-in-law,  came  into  that  fine 
property  just  as  his  predecessor  was  about  to  marry  a  —  " 

Morton  scowled  at  his  garrulous  acquaintance,  and  stalked 
abruptly  to  the  card  table. 

Ever  since  Lord  Lilburne  had  seated  himself  opposite  to 
Mr.  Gawtrey,  that  gentleman  had  evinced  a  perturbation  of 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  239 

manner  that  became  obvious  to  the  company.  He  grew  deadly 
pale,  his  hands  trembled,  he  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat,  he 
missed  deal,  he  trumped  his  partner's  best  diamond,  finally 
he  revoked,  threw  down  his  money,  and  said,  with  a  forced 
smile,  that  the  heat  of  the  room  overcame  him.  As  he  rose 
Lord  Lilburne  rose  also,  and  the  eyes  of  both  met.  Those  of 
Lilburne  were  calm,  but  penetrating  and  inquisitive  in  their 
gaze;  those  of  Gawtrey  were  like  balls  of  fire.  He  seemed 
gradually  to  dilate  in  his  height,  his  broad  chest  expanded, 
he  breathed  hard. 

"Ah,  Doctor,"  said  Mr.  Macgregor,  "let  me  introduce  you 
to  Lord  Lilburne." 

The  peer  bowed  haughtily ;  Mr.  Gawtrey  did  not  return  the 
salutation,  but  with  a  sort  of  gulp,  as  if  he  were  swallowing 
some  burst  of  passion,  strode  to  the  fire,  and  then,  turning 
round,  again  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  new  guest.  Lilburne, 
however,  who  had  never  lost  his  self-composure  at  this  strange 
rudeness,  was  now  quietly  talking  with  their  host. 

"Your  doctor  seems  an  eccentric  man;  a  little  absent, — 
learned,  I  suppose.     Have  you  been  to  Como  yet?" 

Mr.  Gawtrey  remained  by  the  fire  beating  the  devil's  tattoo 
upon  the  chimney-piece,  and  ever  and  anon  turning  his  glance 
towards  Lilburne,  who  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  existence. 

Both  these  guests  stayed  till  the  party  broke  up,  Mr. 
Gawtrey  apparently  wishing  to  outstay  Lord  Lilburne;  for, 
when  the  last  went  downstairs,  Mr.  Gawtrey,  nodding  to  his 
comrade,  and  giving  a  hurried  bow  to  the  host,  descended 
also.  As  they  passed  the  porter's  lodge,  they  found  Lilburne 
on  the  step  of  his  carriage;  he  turned  his  head  abruptly,  and 
again  met  Mr.  Gawtrey 's  eye;  paused  a  moment,  and  whis- 
pered over  his  shoulder,  — 

"So  we  remember  each  other,  sir?  Let  us  not  meet  again; 
and  on  that  condition,  bj^gones  are  bygones." 

"  Scoundrel !  "  muttered  Gawtrey,  clenching  his  fists ;  but 
the  peer  had  sprung  into  his  carriage  with  a  lightness  scarcely 
to  be  expected  from  his  lameness,  and  the  wheels  whirled 
within  an  inch  of  the  soi-disant  doctor's  right  pump. 

Gawtrey  walked  on  for  some  moments  in  great  excitement. 
At  length  he  turned  to  his  companion. 


240  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Do  you  guess  who  Lord  Lilburne  is?  I  will  tell  you,  — 
my  first  foe  and  Fanny's  grandfather!  Now,  note  the  justice 
of  Fate :  here  is  this  man  —  mark  well,  —  this  man  who  com- 
menced life  by  putting  his  faults  on  my  own  shoulders! 
From  that  little  boss  has  fungussed  out  a  terrible  hump. 
This  man  who  seduced  my  affianced  bride,  and  then  left  her 
whole  soul,  once  fair  and  blooming  —  I  swear  it  —  with  its 
leaves  fresh  from  the  dews  of  heaven,  one  rank  leprosy,  — 
this  man  who,  rolling  in  riches,  learned  to  cheat  and  pilfer  as 
a  boy  learns  to  dance  and  play  the  fiddle  and  (to  damn  me, 
whose  happiness  he  had  blasted)  accused  me  to  the  world  of 
his  own  crime ;  here  is  this  man  who  has  not  left  off  one  vice, 
but  added  to  those  of  his  youth  the  bloodless  craft  of  the  vet- 
eran knave ;  here  is  this  man,  flattered,  courted,  great,  march- 
ing through  lanes  of  bowing  parasites  to  an  illustrious  epitaph 
and  a  marble  tomb,  and  I,  a  rogue  too,  if  you  will,  but  rogue 
for  my  bread,  dating  from  him  my  errors  and  my  ruin !  I, 
vagabond,  outcast,  skulking  through  tricks  to  avoid  crime  — 
why  the  difference?  Because  one  is  born  rich  and  the  other 
poor;  because  he  has  no  excuse  for  crime,  and  therefore  no 
one  suspects  him !  " 

The  wretched  man  (for  at  that  moment  he  was  wretched) 
paused  breathless  from  his  passionate  and  rapid  burst,  and 
before  him  rose  in  its  marble  majesty,  with  the  moon  full 
upon  its  shining  spires  —  the  wonder  of  Gothic  lidXj  —  the 
Cathedral  Church  of  Milan. 

"Chafe  not  yourself  at  the  universal  fate,"  said  the  young 
man,  with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lips  and  pointing  to  the  cathe- 
dral. "I  have  not  lived  long,  but  I  have  learned  already 
enough  to  know  this,  —  he  who  could  raise  a  pile  like  that, 
dedicated  to  Heaven,  would  be  honoured  as  a  saint;  he  who 
knelt  to  God  by  the  roadside  under  a  hedge  would  be  sent  to 
the  house  of  correction  as  a  vagabond!  The  difference  be- 
tween man  and  man  is  money,  and  will  be,  when  you,  the 
despised  charlatan,  and  Lilburne,  the  honoured  cheat,  have  not 
left  as  much  dust  behind  you  as  will  fill  a  snuff-box.  Com- 
fort yourself,  you  are  in  the  majority." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  241 


CHAPTER   VII. 

A  DESERT  wild 

Before  them  stretched  bare,  comfortless,  and  vast, 
With  gibbets,  bones,  and  carcasses  defiled. 

Thomson  :    Castle  of  Indolence. 

Mr.  Gawtrey  did  not  wish  to  give  his  foe  the  triumph  of 
thinking  he  had  driven  him  from  Milan ;  he  resolved  to  stay 
and  brave  it  out;  but  when  he  appeared  in  public,  he  found 
the  acquaintances  he  had  formed  bow  politely,  but  cross  to 
the  other  side  of  the  way.  No  more  invitations  to  tea  and 
cards  showered  in  upon  the  jolly  parson.  He  was  puzzled, 
for  people,  while  they  shunned  him,  did  not  appear  uncivil. 
He  found  out  at  last  that  a  report  was  circulated  that  he  was 
deranged.  Though  he  could  not  trace  this  rumour  to  Lord 
Lilburne,  he  was  at  no  loss  to  guess  from  whom  it  had  eman- 
ated. His  own  eccentricities,  especially  his  recent  manner  at 
Mr.  Macgregor's,  gave  confirmation  to  the  charge.  Again  the 
funds  began  to  sink  low  in  the  canvas  bags,  and,  at  length,  in 
despair,  Mr.  Gawtrey  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field.  They 
returned  to  France  through  Switzerland,  —  a  country  too  poor 
for  gamesters ;  and  ever  since  the  interview  with  Lilburne,  a 
great  change  had  come  over  Gawtrey's  gay  spirit.  He  grew 
moody  and  thoughtful,  he  took  no  pains  to  replenish  the  com- 
mon stock,  he  talked  much  and  seriously  to  his  young  friend 
of  poor  Fanny,  and  owned  that  he  yearned  to  see  her  again. 
The  desire  to  return  to  Paris  haunted  him  like  a  fatality. 
He  saw  the  danger  that  awaited  him  there,  bvit  it  only  allured 
him  the  more,  as  the  candle  does  the  moth  whose  wings  it  has 
singed.  Birnie,  who,  in  all  their  vicissitudes  and  wander- 
ings, their  ups  and  downs,  retained  the  same  tacit,  immovable 
demeanour,  received  with  a  sneer  the  orders  at  last  to  march 
back  upon  the  French  capital.  "  You  would  never  have  left 
it,  if  you  had  taken  my  advice,"  he  said,  and  quitted  the  room. 
16 


242  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Mr.  Gawtrey  gazed  after  him  and  muttered,  *'Is  the  die 
then  cast?" 

"What  does  he  mean?"  said  Morton. 

"You  will  know  soon,"  replied  Gawtrey,  and  he  followed 
Biruie;  and  from  that  time  the  whispered  conferences  with 
that  person,  which  had  seemed  suspended  during  their  travels, 
were  renewed. 

One  morning,  three  men  were  seen  entering  Paris  on  foot 
through  the  Porte  St.  Denis.  It  was  a  fine  day  in  spring,  and 
the  old  city  looked  gay  with  its  loitering  passengers  and  gaudy 
shops,  and  under  that  clear  blue  exhilarating  sky  so  peculiar 
to  France. 

Two  of  these  men  walked  abreast,  the  other  preceded  them 
a  few  steps.  The  one  who  went  first  —  thin,  pale,  and  thread- 
bare —  yet  seemed  to  suffer  the  least  from  fatigue ;  he  walked 
witti  a  long,  swinging,  noiseless  stride,  looking  to  the  right 
and  left  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  Of  the  two  who  fol- 
lowed, one  was  handsome  and  finely  formed,  but  of  swarthy 
complexion,  young,  yet  with  a  look  of  care;  the  other  of 
sturdy  frame,  leaned  on  a  thick  stick,  and  his  eyes  were 
gloomily  cast  down. 

"Philip,"  said  the  last,  "in  coming  back  to  Paris,  I  feel 
that  I  am  coming  back  to  my  grave !  " 

"Pooh!  you  were  equally  despondent  in  our  excursions 
elsewhere." 

"Because  I  was  always  thinking  of  poor  Panny,  and 
because  —  because  —  Birnie  was  ever  at  me  with  his  horrible 
temptations!  " 

"  Birnie !  I  loathe  the  man !    Will  you  never  get  rid  of  him?  " 

"I  cannot!  Hush!  he  will  hear  us!  How  unlucky  we 
have  been !  and  now  without  a  soil  in  our  pockets,  —  here  the 
dunghill,  there  the  jail!      We  are  in  his  power  at  last!  " 

"His  power!  what  mean  you? " 

"What  ho!  Birnie!"  cried  Gawtrey,  unheeding  Morton's 
question.     "  Let  us  halt  and  breakfast ;  I  am  tired." 

"You  forget!  we  have  no  money  till  we  make  it!  "  returned 
Birnie,  coldly.    "  Come  to  the  surrurier's,  —  he  will  trust  us  I " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  243 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Gaunt  Beggary  and  Scorn,  with  many  hell-hounds  more. 

Thomson  :   Castle  of  Indolence. 

The  other  was  a  fell,  despiteful  fiend.  — Ibid. 

Your  happiness  behold  !  then  straight  a  wand 

He  waved,  an  anti-magic  power  that  hath 

Truth  from  illusive  falsehood  to  command.  —  Ibid. 

But  what  for  us,  the  children  of  despair. 

Brought  to  the  brink  of  hell,  —  what  hope  remains  ? 

Resolve,  Resolve.  —  Ibid. 

It  may  be  observed  that  there  are  certain  years  in  which  in 
a  civilized  country  some  particular  crime  comes  into  vogue. 
It  flares  its  season,  and  then  burns  out.  Thus  at  one  time 
we  have  Burking,  at  another,  Swingism;  now,  suicide  is  in 
vogue,  now,  poisoning  tradespeople  in  apple-dumplings,  now, 
little  boys  stab  each  other  with  penknives,  now,  common 
solders  shoot  at  their  sergeants.  Almost  every  j^ear  there  is 
one  crime  peculiar  to  it, —  a  sort  of  annual  which  overruns 
the  country,  but  does  not  bloom  again.  Unquestionably  the 
Press  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  these  epidemics.  Let  a 
newspaper  once  give  an  account  of  some  out-of-the-way  atroc- 
ity that  has  the  charm  of  being  novel,  and  certain  depraved 
minds  fasten  to  it  like  leeches.  They  brood  over  and  revolve 
it;  the  idea  grows  up,  a  horrid  phantasmalian  monomania;^ 
and  all  of  a  sudden,  in  a  hundred  different  places,  the  one 

1  An  old  Spanish  writer,  treating  of  the  Inquisition,  has  some  very  striking 
remarks  on  the  kind  of  madness  wliich,  whenever  some  terrible  notoriety  is 
given  to  a  particular  offence,  leads  persons  of  distempered  fancy  to  accuse 
themselves  of  it.  He  observes  that  when  the  cruelties  of  the  Incjuisition  against 
the  imaginary  crime  of  sorcery  were  the  most  barbarous,  this  singular  frenzy 
led  numbers  to  accuse  themselves  of  sorcery.  The  publication  and  celebrity 
of  the  crime  begat  the  desire  of  the  crime. 


244  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

seed  sown  by  the  leaden  types  springs  up  into  foul  flowering. 
But  if  the  first  reported  aboriginal  crime  has  been  attended 
with  impunity,  how  much  more  does  the  imitative  faculty 
cling  to  it.  Ill-judged  mercy  falls,  not  like  dew,  but  like  a 
great  heap  of  manure,  on  the  rank  deed. 

Now  it  happened  that  at  the  time  I  write  of,  or  rather  a 
little  before,  there  had  been  detected  and  tried  in  Paris  a 
most  redoubted  coiner.  He  had  carried  on  the  business  with 
a  dexterity  that  won  admiration  even  for  the  offence;  and, 
moreover,  he  had  served  previously  with  some  distinction  at 
Austerlitz  and  Marengo.  The  consequence  was  that  the 
public  went  with  instead  of  against  him,  and  his  sentence 
was  transmuted  to  three  years'  imprisonment  by  the  govern- 
ment,—  for  all  governments  in  free  countries  aspire  rather  to 
be  popular  than  just. 

No  sooner  was  this  case  reported  in  the  journals  —  and 
even  the  gravest  took  notice  of  it  (which  is  not  common  with 
the  scholastic  journals  of  France), —  no  sooner  did  it  make  a 
stir  and  a  sensation,  and  cover  the  criminal  with  celebrity, 
than  the  result  became  noticeable  in  a  very  large  issue  of 
false  money. 

Coining  in  the  year  I  now  write  of  was  the  fashionable 
crime.  The  police  were  roused  into  full  vigour;  it  became 
known  to  them  that  there  was  one  gang  in  especial  who  cul- 
tivated this  art  with  singular  success.  Their  coinage  was,  in- 
deed, so  good,  so  superior  to  all  their  rivals,  that  it  was  often 
unconsciously  preferred  by  the  public  to  the  real  mintage. 
At  the  same  time  they  carried  on  their  calling  with  such 
secrecy  that  they  utterly  baffled  discovery. 

An  immense  reward  was  offered  by  the  bureau  to  any  one 
who  would  betray  his  accomplices,  and  ]M.  Favart  was  placed 
at  the  head  of  a  commission  of  inquiry.  This  person  had 
himself  been  2^  faux  monnoyer,  and  was  an  adept  in  the  art, 
and  it  was  he  who  had  discovered  the  redoubted  coiner  who 
had  brought  the  crime  into  such  notoriety.  M.  Favart  was  a 
man  of  the  most  vigilant  acuteness,  the  most  indefatigable 
research,  and  of  a  courage  which,  perhaps,  is  more  common 
than  we  suppose.     It  is  a  popular  error  to  suppose  that  cour- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  245 

age  means  courage  iu  everytliiug.  Put  a  hero  on  board  ship 
at  a  five-barred  gate,  and,  if  he  is  not  used  to  hunting,  he 
will  turn  pale ;  put  a  fox-hunter  on  one  of  the  Swiss  chasms, 
over  which  the  mountaineer  springs  like  a  roe,  and  his  knees 
will  knock  under  him.  People  are  brave  in  the  dangers  to 
which  they  accustom  themselves,  either  in  imagination  or 
practice. 

M.  Favart,  then,  was  a  man  of  the  most  daring  bravery  in 
facing  rogues  and  cut-throats.  He  awed  them  with  his  very 
eye ;  yet  he  had  been  known  to  have  been  kicked  downstairs 
by  his  wife,  and  when  he  was  drawn  into  the  grand  army,  he 
deserted  the  eve  of  his  first  battle.  Such,  as  moralists  say, 
is  the  inconsistency  of  man ! 

But  M.  Favart  was  sworn  to  trace  the  coiners,  and  he  had 
never  failed  yet  in  any  enterprise  he  undertook.     One  day  he 
presented  himself  to  his  chief  with  a  countenance  so  elated 
that  that  penetrating  functionary  said  to  him  at  once, — 
"  You  have  heard  of  our  messieurs !  " 
"I  have;  I  am  to  visit  them  to-night." 
"Bravo !     How  many  men  will  you  take?  " 
"From  twelve  to  twenty  to  leave  without  on  guard;  but  I 
must  enter  alone.      Such  is   the   condition;    an   accomplice 
who  fears  his  own  throat  too  much  to  be  openly  a  betrayer 
will  introduce  me  to  the  house, —  nay,  to  the  very  room.     By 
his  description  it  is  necessary  I  should  know  the  exact  locale 
in  order  to  cut  off  retreat;    so  to-morrow  night  I  shall  sur- 
round the  beehive  and  take  the  honey." 

"  They  are  desperate  fellows,  these  coiners,  always ;  better 
be  cautious." 

"You  forget  I  was  one  of  them,  and  know  the  masonry." 
About  the  same  time  this  conversation  was  going  on  at  the 
bureau  of  the  police,  in  another  part  of  the  town  Morton  and 
Gawtrey  were  seated  alone.  It  is  some  weeks  since  they  en- 
tered Paris,  and  spring  has  mellowed  into  summer.  The 
house  in  which  they  lodged  was  in  the  lordly  quart ier  of  the 
Faubourg  St,  Germain;  the  neighbouring  streets  were  vener- 
able with  the  ancient  edifices  of  a  fallen  noblesse;  but  their 
tenement  was  in  a  narrow,  dingy  lane,  and  the  building  itself 


246  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

seemed  beggarly  and  ruinous.  The  apartment  was  in  an  attic 
on  the  sixth  story,  and  the  window,  placed  at  the  back  of  the 
lane,  looked  upon  another  row  of  houses  of  a  better  descrip- 
tion, that  communicated  with  one  of  the  great  streets  of  the 
quartier.  The  space  between  their  abode  and  their  opposite 
neighbours  was  so  narrow  that  the  sun  could  scarcely  pierce 
between.  In  the  height  of  summer  might  be  found  there  a 
perpetual  shade. 

The  pair  were  seated  by  the  window.  Gawtrey,  well- 
dressed,  smooth-shaven,  as  in  his  palmy  time;  Morton,  in 
the  same  garments  with  which  he  nad  entered  Paris,  weather- 
stained  and  ragged.  Looking  towards  the  casements  of  the 
attic  in  the  opposite  house,  Gawtrey  said  mutteringly,  "  I 
wonder  where  Birnie  has  been,  and  why  he  has  not  returned. 
I  grow  suspicious  of  that  man." 

"Suspicious  of  what?"  asked  Morton.  "Of  his  honesty? 
Would  he  rob  you?" 

"  Rob  me !  Humph,  perhaps !  But  you  see  I  am  in  Paris, 
in  spite  of  the  hints  of  the  police;  he  may  denounce  me." 

"Why,  then,  suffer  him  to  lodge  away  from  you?" 

"Why?  because  by  having  separate  houses  there  are  two 
channels  of  escape.  A  dark  night,  and  a  ladder  thrown  across 
from  window  to  window,  he  is  with  us,  or  we  with  him." 

"But  wherefore  such  precautions?  You  blind,  you  deceive 
me;  what  have  you  done?  what  is  your  employment  now? 
You  are  mute.  Hark  you,  Gawtrey.  I  have  pinned  my  fate 
to  you,  I  am  fallen  from  hope  itself!  At  times  it  almost 
makes  me  mad  to  look  back,  and  yet  you  do  not  trust  me. 
Since  your  return  to  Paris  you  are  absent  whole  nights,  often 
days;  you  are  moody  and  thoughtful;  yet,  whatever  your 
business,   it  seems  to  bring  you  ample  returns." 

"You  think  that,^^  said  Gawtrey,  mildly,  and  with  a  sort 
of  pity  in  his  voice;  "yet  you  refuse  to  take  even  the  money 
to  change  those  rags." 

"Because  I  know  not  how  the  money  was  gained.  Ah, 
Gawtrey,  I  am  not  too  proud  for  charity,  but  I  am  for  —  " 

He  checked  the  word  uppermost  in  his  thoughts,  and 
resumed, — 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  247 

"Yes;  your  occupations  seem  lucrative.  It  was  but  yester- 
day Birnie  gave  me  fifty  mipoleous,  for  which  he  said  you 
wished  change  in  silver." 

"Did  he?  The  ras —  Well!  and  you  got  change  for 
them?  " 

"I  know  not  why,  but  I  refused." 

"That  was  right,  Philip.     Do  nothing  that  man  tells  you." 

"Will  you,  then,  trust  me?  You  are  engaged  in  some  hor- 
rible traffic!  it  may  be  blood!  I  am  no  longer  a  boy, —  I 
have  a  will  of  my  own,  I  will  not  be  silently  and  blindly  en- 
trapped to  perdition.  If  I  march  thither,  it  shall  be  with  my 
own  consent.    Trust  me,  and  this  day,  or  we  part  to-morrow." 

"Be  ruled.     Some  secrets  it  is  better  not  to  know." 

"It  matters  not.  I  have  come  to  my  decision, — I  ask 
yours." 

Gawtrey  paused  for  some  moments  in  deep  thought.  At 
last  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Philip,   and  replied, — 

"Well,  then,  if  it  must  be.  Sooner  or  later  it  must  have 
been  so;  and  I  want  a  confidant.  You  are  bold,  and  will  not 
shrink.  You  desire  to  know  my  occupation, —  will  you 
witness  it  to-night?" 

"I  am  prepared;  to-night!  " 

Here  a  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  Birnie  entered. 

He  drew  aside  Gawtrey,  and  whispered  him,  as  usual,  for 
some  moments. 

Gawtrey  nodded  his  head,  and  then  said  aloud, — 

"To-morrow  we  shall  talk  without  reserve  before  my  young 
friend.     To-night  he  joins  us." 

"To-night!  very  well!"  said  Birnie,  with  his  cold  sneer. 
"He  must  take  the  oath;  and  you,  with  your  life,  will  be 
responsible  for  his  honesty?" 

"Ay!  it  is  the  rule." 

"Good-by,  then,  till  we  meet,"  said  Birnie,  and  withdrew. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Gawtrey,  musingly,  and  between  his 
grinded  teeth,  "  whether  I  shall  ever  have  a  good  fair  shot  at 
that  fellow?     Ho,  ho!  "  and  his  laugh  shook  the  walls. 

Morton  looked  hard  at  Gawtrey,  as  the  latter  now  sank 


248  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

down  in  his  chair,  and  gazed  with  a  vacant  stare,  that  seemed 
almost  to  partake  of  imbecility,  upon  the  opposite  wall.  The 
careless,  reckless,  jovial  expression,  which  usually  character- 
ized the  features  of  the  man,  had  for  some  weeks  given  place 
to  a  restless,  anxious,  and  at  times  ferocious  aspect,  like  the 
beast  that  first  finds  a  sport  while  the  hounds  are  yet  afar, 
and  his  limbs  are  yet  strong,  in  the  chase  which  marks  him 
for  his  victim,  but  grows  desperate  with  rage  and  fear  as  the 
day  nears  its  close,  and  the  death-dogs  pant  hard  upon  his 
track.  But  at  that  moment  the  strong  features,  with  their 
gnarled  muscles  and  iron  sinews,  seemed  to  have  lost  every 
sign  both  of  passion  and  the  will,  and  to  be  locked  in  a  stolid 
and  dull  repose.  At  last  he  looked  up  at  Morton,  and  said, 
with  a  smile  like  that  of  an  old  man  in  his  dotage,  — 

"I'm  thinking  that  my  life  has  been  one  mistake!  I  had 
talents;  you  would  not  fancy  it,  but  once  I  was  neither  a  fool 
nor  a  villain!     Odd,  isn't  it?     Just  reach  me  the  brandy." 

But  Morton,  with  a  slight  shudder,  turned  and  left  the 
room. 

He  walked  on  mechanically,  and  gained,  at  last,  the  superb 
Quai  that  borders  the  Seine.  There,  the  passengers  became 
more  frequent;  gay  equipages  rolled  along;  the  white  and 
lofty  mansions  looked  fair  and  stately  in  the  clear  blue  sky  of 
early  summer;  beside  him  flowed  the  sparkling  river,  ani- 
mated with  the  painted  baths  that  floated  on  its  surface. 
Earth  was  merry  and  heaven  serene;  his  heart  was  dark 
through  all.  Night  within,  Morning  beautiful  without!  At 
last  he  paused  by  that  bridge,  stately  with  the  statues  of 
those  whom  the  caprice  of  time  honours  with  a  name;  for 
though  Zeus  and  his  gods  be  overthrown,  while  earth  exists 
will  live  the  worship  of  Dead  Men, —  the  bridge  by  which 
you  pass  from  the  royal  Tuileries  or  the  luxurious  streets  be- 
yond the  Eue  de  Rivoli  to  the  Senate  of  the  emancipated 
People,  and  the  gloomy  and  desolate  grandeur  of  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain,  in  whose  venerable  haunts  the  impover- 
ished descendants  of  the  old  feudal  tyrants,  whom  the  birth 
of  the  Senate  overthrew,  yet  congregate,  —  the  ghosts  of  de- 
parted powers  proud  of  the  shadows  of  great  names.     As  the 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  249 

English  outcast  paused  midway  on  the  bridge,  and  for  the 
first  time  lifting  his  head  from  his  bosom,  gazed  around, 
there  broke  at  once  on  his  remembrance  that  terrible  and 
fatal  evening,  when,  hopeless,  friendless,  desperate,  he  had 
begged  for  charity  of  his  uncle's  hireling,  with  all  the  feel- 
ings that  then  (so  imperfectly  and  lightly  touched  on  in  his 
brief  narrative  to  Gawtrey)  had  raged  and  blackened  in  his 
breast  urging  to  the  resolution  he  had  adopted,  casting  him 
on  the  ominous  friendship  of  the  man  whose  guidance  he 
even  then  had  suspected  and  distrusted.  The  spot  in  either 
city  had  a  certain  similitude  and  correspondence  each  with 
each :  at  the  first  he  had  consummated  his  despair  of  human 
destinies,  he  had  dared  to  forget  the  Providence  of  God,  he 
had  arrogated  his  fate  to  himself,  by  the  first  bridge  he  had 
taken  his  resolve ;  by  the  last  he  stood  in  awe  at  the  result ! 
—  stood  no  less  poor,  no  less  abject,  equally  in  rags  and 
squalor;  but  was  his  crest  as  haughty  and  his  eye  as  fearless, 
for  was  his  conscience  as  free  and  his  honour  as  unstained? 
Those  arches  of  stone,  those  rivers  that  rolled  between, 
seemed  to  him  then  to  take  a  more  mystic  and  typical  sense 
than  belongs  to  the  outer  world, —  they  were  the  bridges  to 
the  Eivers  of  his  Life.  Plunged  in  thoughts  so  confused  and 
dim  that  he  could  scarcely  distinguish,  through  the  chaos, 
the  one  streak  of  light  which,  perhaps,  heralded  the  recon- 
struction or  regeneration  of  the  elements  of  his  soul,  two 
passengers  halted,   also  by  his  side. 

"You  will  be  late  for  the  debate,"  said  one  of  them  to  the 
other.     "Why  do  you  stop?" 

"My  friend,"  said  the  other,  "I  never  pass  this  spot  with- 
out recalling  the  time  when  I  stood  here  without  a  sou,  or,  as 
I  thought,  a  chance  of  one,  and  impiously  meditated  self- 
destruction." 

"  Youf  now  so  rich,  so  fortunate  in  repute  and  station, — 
is  it  possible?  How  was  it?  A  lucky  chance,  a  sudden 
legacy?" 

"No;  Time,  Faith,  and  Energy,  — the  three  Friends  God 
has  given  to  the  Poor ! " 

The  men  moved  on ;  but  Morton,  who  had  turned  his  face 


250  XIGIIT   AXD  MORNING. 

towards  them,  fancied  that  the  last  speaker  fixed  on  him  his 
bright,  cheerful  eye,  with  a  meaning  look ;  and  when  the  man 
was  gone,  he  repeated  those  words,  and  hailed  them  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  as  an  augury  from  above. 

Quickly,  then,  and  as  if  by  magic,  the  former  confusion  of 
his  mind  seemed  to  settle  into  distinct  shapes  of  courage  and 
resolve.  "Yes,"  he  muttered;  "I  will  keep  this  night's  ap- 
pointment, I  will  learn  the  secret  of  these  men's  life.  In  my 
inexperience  and  destitution,  I  have  suffered  myself  to  be  led 
hitherto  into  a  partnership,  if  not  with  vice  and  crime,  at 
least  with  subterfuge  and  trick.  I  awake  from  my  reckless 
boyhood,  my  unworthy  palterings  with  my  better  self.  If 
Gawtrey  be  as  I  dread  to  find  him,  if  he  be  linked  in  some 
guilty  and  hateful  traffic  with  that  loathsome  accomplice,  I 

will "     He  paused,  for  his  heart  whispered,  "Well,  and 

even  so, — the  guilty  man  clothed  and  f ed  f /tee .-' "  "I  will," 
resumed  his  thought,  in  answer  to  his  heart, —  "I  will  go  on 
my  knees  to  him  to  fly  while  there  is  yet  time,  to  work,  beg, 
starve,  perish  even,  rather  than  lose  the  right  to  look  man  in 
the  face  without  a  blush,  and  kneel  to  his  God  without 
remorse ! " 

And  as  he  thus  ended,  he  felt  suddenly  as  if  he  himself 
were  restored  to  the  perception  and  the  joy  of  the  Xature  and 
the  World  around  him;  the  night  had  vanished  from  his 
soul,  he  inhaled  the  balm  and  freshness  of  the  air,  he  com- 
prehended the  delight  which  the  liberal  June  was  scattering 
over  the  earth,  he  looked  above,  and  his  eyes  were  suffused 
with  pleasure,  at  the  smile  of  the  soft  blue  skies.  The  morx- 
ING  became,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  his  own  being;  and  he  felt 
that  as  the  world  in  spite  of  the  storms  is  fair,  so  in  spite  of 
evil  God  is  good.  He  walked  on,  he  passed  the  bridge ;  but 
his  step  was  no  more  the  same;  he  forgot  his  rags.  Why 
should  he  be  ashamed?  And  thus,  in  the  very  flush  of  this 
new  and  strange  elation  and  elasticity  of  spirit,  he  came  un- 
awares upon  a  group  of  young  men,  lounging  before  the  porch 
of  one  of  the  chief  hotels  in  that  splendid  Kue  de  Rivoli, 
wherein  Wealth  and  the  English  have  made  their  homes. 
A  groom,  mounted,  was  leading  another  horse  up  and  down 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  251 

the  road,  and  the  young  men  were  making  their  comments  of 
approbation  upon  both  the  horses,  especially  the  one  led, 
which  was,  indeed,  of  uncommon  beau.ty  and  great  value. 
Even  Morton,  in  whom  the  boyish  passion  of  his  earlier  life 
yet  existed,  paused  to  turn  his  experienced  and  admiring  eye 
upon  the  stately  shape  and  pace  of  the  noble  animal,  and  as 
he  did  so,  a  name  too  well  remembered  came  upon  his  ear. 

"  Certainly,  Arthur  Beaufort  is  the  most  enviable  fellow  in 
Europe ! " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  another  of  the  young  men;  "he  has 
plenty  of  money,  is  good-looking,  devilish  good-natured, 
clever,    and  spends  like  a  prince." 

"  Has  the  best  horses !  " 

"The  best  luck  at  roulette!" 

"The  prettiest  girls  in  love  with  him!  " 

"  And  no  one  enjoys  life  more.     Ah,  here  he  is !  " 

The  group  parted  as  a  light,  graceful  figure  came  out  of  a 
jeweller's  shop  that  adjoined  the  hotel,  and  halted  gayly 
amongst  the  loungers.  Morton's  first  impulse  was  to  hurry 
from  the  spot;  his  second  impulse  arrested  his  step,  and,  a 
little  apart,  and  half -hid  beneath  one  of  the  arches  of  the  col- 
onnade which  adorns  the  street,  the  Outcast  gazed  upon  the 
Heir.  There  was  no  comparison  in  the  natural  personal  ad- 
vantages of  the  two  young  men;  for  Philip  Morton,  despite 
all  the  hardships  of  his  rough  career,  had  now  grown  up  and 
ripened  into  a  rare  perfection  of  form  and  feature.  His  broad 
chest,  his  erect  air,  his  lithe  and  symmetrical  length  of  limb, 
united,  happily,  the  attributes  of  activity  and  strength;  and 
though  there  was  no  delicacy  of  youthful  bloom  upon  his  dark 
cheek,  and  though  lines  which  should  have  come  later  marred 
its  smoothness  with  the  signs  of  care  and  thought,  yet  an  ex- 
pression of  intelligence  and  daring,  equally  beyond  his  years, 
and  the  evidence  of  hardy,  abstemious,  vigorous  health,  served 
to  show  to  the  full  advantage  the  outline  of  features  which, 
noble  and  regular,  though  stern  and  masculine,  the  artist 
might  have  borrowed  for  his  ideal  of  a  young  Spartan  arming 
for  his  lirst  battle.  Arthur,  slight  to  feebleness,  and  with  the 
paleness,  partly  of  constitution,  partly  of  gay  excess,  on  his 


252  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

fair  and  clear  complexion,  had  features  far  less  symmetrical 
and  impressive  than  his  cousin:  but  what  then?  All  that 
are  bestowed  by  elegance  of  dress,  the  refinements  of  luxuri- 
ous habit,  the  nameless  grace  that  comes  from  a  mind  and  a 
manner  polished, —  the  one  by  literary  culture,  the  other  by 
social  intercourse, —  invested  the  person  of  the  heir  with  a 
fascination  that  rude  Nature  alone  ever  fails  to  give.  And 
about  him  there  was  a  gayety,  an  airiness  of  spirit,  an  atmos- 
phere of  enjoyment,  which  bespoke  one  who  is  in  love  with 
life. 

"Why,  this  is  luckj^!  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  all!"  said 
Arthur  Beaufort,  with  that  silver-ringing  tone,  and  charming 
smile,  which  are  to  the  happy  spring  of  man  what  its  music 
and  its  sunshine  are  to  the  spring  of  earth.  "  You  must  dine 
with  me  at  Verey's.  I  want  something  to  rouse  me  to-day; 
for  I  did  not  get  home  from  the  Salon^  till  four  this 
morning." 

"But  you  won?" 

"Yes,  Marsden.  Hang  it!  I  always  win,  —  I  who  could  so 
well  afford  to  lose;  I  'm  quite  ashamed  of  my  luck!  " 

"It  is  easy  to  spend  what  one  wins,"  observed  Mr.  Marsden, 
sententiously ;  "and  I  see  you  have  been  at  the  jeweller's! 
A  present  for  Cecile?  Well,  don't  blush,  my  dear  fellow. 
What  is  life  without  women?" 

"And  wine?  "  said  a  second. 

"And  play?  "  said  a  third. 

"And  wealth?"  said  a  fourth. 

"  And  you  enjoy  them  all !     Happy  fellow !  "  said  a  fifth. 

The  Outcast  pulled  his  hat  over  his  brows,  and  walked  away. 

"  This  dear  Paris ! "  said  Beaufort,  as  his  eye  carelessly 
and  unconsciously  followed  the  dark  form  retreating  through 
the  arches, —  "tlds  dear  Paris!  I  must  make  the  most  of  it 
while  I  stay !  I  have  only  been  here  a  few  weeks,  and  next 
week  I  must  go." 

"Pooh!  your  health  is  better:  you  don't  look  like  the  same 
man." 

1  The  most  celebrated  gaming-house  in  Paris  in  the  day  before  gaming- 
houses were  suppressed  by  the  well-directed  energy  of  the  government. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  253 

"You  think  so  really?  Still  I  don't  know;  the  doctors  say- 
that  I  must  either  go  to  the  German  waters, — the  season  is 
begun, —  or  —  " 

"Or  what?" 

"  Live  less  with  such  pleasant  companions,  my  dear  fellow ! 
But  as  you  say,  what  is  life  without  —  " 

"Women! " 

"Wine!" 

"Play!" 

"Wealth!" 

"Ha,  ha!     *  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs;  I  '11  none  of  it! ' " 

And  Arthur  leaped  lightly  on  his  saddle,  and  as  he  rode 
gayly  on,  humming  the  favourite  air  of  the  last  opera,  the 
hoofs  of  his  horse  splashed  the  mud  over  a  foot-passenger 
halting  at  the  crossing.  Morton  checked  the  fiery  exclama- 
tion rising  to  his  lips;  and  gazing  after  the  brilliant  form 
that  hurried  on  towards  the  Champs  Elys^es,  his  eye  caught 
the  statues  on  the  bridge,  and  a  voice  as  of  a  cheering  angel 
whispered  again  to  his  heart,  "  time,  faith,  energy  !  " 

The  expression  of  his  countenance  grew  calm  at  once; 
and  as  he  continued  his  rambles  it  was  with  a  mind  that, 
casting  off  the  burdens  of  the  past,  looked  serenely  and  stead- 
ily on  the  obstacles  and  hardships  of  the  future.  We  have 
seen  that  a  scruple  of  conscience  or  of  pride,  not  without  its 
nobleness,  had  made  him  refuse  the  importunities  of  Gawtrey 
for  less  sordid  raiment;  the  same  feeling  made  it  his  custom 
to  avoid  sharing  the  luxurious  and  dainty  food  with  which 
Gawtrey  was  wont  to  regale  himself.  For  that  strange  man, 
whose  wonderful  felicity  of  temperament  and  constitution 
rendered  him,  in  all  circumstances,  keenly  alive  to  the  hearty 
and  animal  enjoyments  of  life,  would  still  emerge,  as  the  day 
declined,  from  their  wretched  apartment,  and,  trusting  to  his 
disguises,  in  which  indeed  he  possessed  a  masterly  art,  repair 
to  one  of  the  better  description  of  restaurants,  and  feast 
away  his  cares  for  the  moment.  William  Gawtrey  would  not 
have  cared  three  straws  for  the  curse  of  Damocles.  The 
sword  over  7iis  head  would  never  have  spoiled  his  appetite! 
He  had  lately,  too,  taken  to  drinking  much  more  deeply  than 


254  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

lie  had  been  used  to  do;  the  fine  intellect  of  the  man  was 
growing  thickened  and  dulled,  and  this  was  a  spectacle  that 
Morton  could  not  bear  to  contemplate.  Yet  so  great  was 
Gawtrey's  vigour  of  health,  that,  after  draining  wine  and 
spirits  enough  to  have  despatched  a  company  of  fox-hunters, 
and  after  betraying,  sometimes  in  uproarious  glee,  some- 
times in  maudlin  self-bewailings,  that  he  himself  was  not 
quite  invulnerable  to  the  thyrsus  of  the  god,  he  would  —  on 
any  call  on  his  energies,  or  especially  before  departing  on 
those  mysterious  expeditions  which  kept  him  from  home  half, 
and  sometimes  all,  the  night  —  plunge  his  head  into  cold  water, 
drink  as  much  of  the  lymph  as  a  groom  would  have  shuddered 
to  bestow  on  a  horse,  close  his  eyes  in  a  doze  for  half  an  hour, 
and  wake,  cool,  sober,  and  collected,  as  if  he  had  lived  ac- 
cording to  the  precepts  of  Socrates  or  Cornaro! 

But  to  return  to  Morton.  It  was  his  habit  to  avoid  as  much 
as  possible  sharing  the  good  cheer  of  his  companion;  and 
now,  as  he  entered  the  Champs  Elysees,  he  saw  a  little  fam- 
ily, consisting  of  a  young  mechanic,  his  wife,  and  two  chil- 
dren, who,  with  that  love  of  harmless  recreation  which  yet 
characterizes  the  French,  had  taken  advantage  of  a  holiday 
in  the  craft,  and  were  enjoying  their  simple  meal  under  the 
shadow  of  the  trees.  Whether  in  hunger  or  in  envy,  Morton 
paused  and  contemplated  the  happy  group.  Along  the  road 
rolled  the  equipages  and  trampled  the  steeds  of  those  to 
whom  all  life  is  a  holiday.  There,  was  Pleasure,  under  those 
trees  was  Happiness.  One  of  the  children,  a  little  boy  of 
about  six  years  old,  observing  the  attitude  and  gaze  of  the 
pausing  wayfarer,  ran  to  him,  and  holding  up  a  fragment  of  a 
coarse  kind  of  cake,  said  to  him,  willingly,  "Take  it;  I  have 
had  enough!"  The  child  reminded  Morton  of  his  brother; 
his  heart  melted  within  him,  he  lifted  the  young  Samaritan 
in  his  arms,   and  as  he  kissed  him,  wept. 

The  mother  observed  and  rose  also.  She  laid  her  hand  on 
his  own.  "Poor  boy!  why  do  you  weep?  Can  we  relieve 
you?" 

Now  that  bright  gleam  of  human  nature,  suddenly  darting 
across  the  sombre  recollections  and  associations  of  his  past 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  255 

life,  seemed  to  Morton  as  if  it  came  from  Heaven,  in  ap- 
proval and  in  blessing  of  this  attempt  at  reconciliation  to  his 
fate. 

"I  thank  you,"  said  he,  placing  the  child  on  the  ground, 
and  passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes, —  "I  thank  you,  yes! 
Let  me  sit  down  amongst  you."  And  he  sat  down,  the  child 
by  his  side,  and  partook  of  their  fare,  and  was  merry  with 
them, — the  proud  Philip!  — had  he  not  begun  to  discover  the 
"precious  jewel"  in  the  "ugly  and  venomous"  Adversity? 

The  mechanic,  though  a  gay  fellow  on  the  whole,  was  not 
without  some  of  that  discontent  of  his  station  which  is  com- 
mon with  his  class ;  he  vented  it,  however,  not  in  murmurs, 
but  in  jests.  He  was  satirical  on  the  carriages  and  the  horse- 
men that  passed;  and  lolling  on  the  grass,  ridiculed  his 
betters  at  his  ease. 

"  Hush !  "  said  his  wife,  suddenly ;  "  here  comes  Madame  de 
Merville ; "  and  rising  as  she  spoke,  she  made  a  respectful  in- 
clination of  her  head  towards  an  open  carriage  that  was 
passing  very  slowly  towards  the  town. 

"Madame  de  Merville,"  repeated  the  husband,  rising  also, 
and  lifting  his  cap  from  his  head.  "Ah!  I  have  nothing  to 
say  against  her  !  " 

Morton  looked  instinctively  towards  the  carriage,  and  saw 
a  fair  countenance  turned  graciously  to  answer  the  silent  salu- 
tations of  the  mechanic  and  his  wife, — a  countenance  that 
had  long  haunted  his  dreams,  though  of  late  it  had  faded 
away  beneath  harsher  thoughts,  the  countenance  of  the 
stranger  whom  he  had  seen  at  the  bureau  of  Gawtrey,  when 
that  worthy  personage  had  borne  a  more  mellifluous  name. 
He  started  and  changed  colour.  The  lady  herself  now  seemed 
suddenly  to  recognize  him;  for  their  eyes  met,  and  she  bent 
forward  eagerly.  She  pulled  the  check-string;  the  carriage 
halted;  she  beckoned  to  the  mechanic's  wife,  who  went  up  to 
the  road-side. 

"  I  worked  once  for  that  lady, "  said  the  man  with  a  tone  of 
feeling;  "and  when  my  wife  fell  ill  last  winter  she  paid  the 
doctors.     Ah,  she  is  an  angel  of  charity  and  kindness !  " 

Morton  scarcely  heard  this  eulogium,  for  he  observed,  by 


256  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

something  eager  and  inquisitive  in  the  face  of  Madame  de 
Merville,  and  by  the  sudden  manner  in  which  the  mechanic's 
helpmate  turned  her  head  to  the  spot  in  which  he  stood,  that 
he  was  the  object  of  their  conversation.  Once  more  he  became 
suddenly  aware  of  his  ragged  dress,  and  with  a  natural  shame 
—  a  fear  that  charity  might  be  extended  to  him  from  her  — 
he  muttered  an  abrupt  farewell  to  the  operative,  and  without 
another  glance  at  the  carriage,  walked  away. 

Before  he  had  got  many  paces,  the  wife  however  came  up 
to  him,  breathless.  "Madame  de  Merville  would  speak  to 
you,  sir ! "  she  said,  with  more  respect  than  she  had  hitherto 
thrown  into  her  manner.  Philip  paused  an  instant,  and  again 
strode  on. 

"It  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  said,  hurriedly;  "  I  have 
no  right  to  expect  such  an  honour." 

He  struck  across  the  road,  gained  the  opposite  side,  and 
had  vanished  from  Madame  de  Merville 's  eyes  before  the 
woman  regained  the  carriage.  But  still  that  calm,  pale,  and 
somewhat  melancholy  face  presented  itself  before  him;  and 
as  he  walked  again  through  the  town,  sweet  and  gentle  fan- 
cies crowded  confusedly  on  his  heart.  On  that  soft  summer 
day,  memorable  for  so  many  silent  but  mighty  events  in  that 
inner  life  which  prepares  the  catastrophes  of  the  outer  one, — 
as  in  the  region  of  which  Virgil  has  sung  the  images  of  men 
to  be  born  hereafter  repose  or  glide, —  on  that  soft  summer 
day  he  felt  he  had  reached  the  age  when  Youth  begins  to 
clothe  in  some  human  shape  its  first  vague  ideal  of  desire 
and  love. 

In  such  thoughts,  and  still  wandering,  the  day  wore  away, 
till  he  found  himself  in  one  of  the  lanes  that  surround  that 
glittering  Microcosm  of  the  vices,  the  frivolities,  the  hollow 
show,  and  the  real  beggary  of  the  gay  City, — the  gardens 
and  the  galleries  of  the  Palais  Royal.  Surprised  at  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  it  was  then  on  the  stroke  of  seven,  he  was 
about  to  return  homewards,  when  the  loud  voice  of  Gawtrey 
sounded  behind,  and  that  personage,  tapping  him  on  the  back, 
said, — 

"Hallo,  my  young  friend,  well  met!     This  will  be  a  night 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  257 

of  trial  to  you.  Empty  stomachs  produce  weak  nerves. 
Come  along!  you  must  dine  with  me.  A  good  dinner  and  a 
bottle  of  old  wine  —  come !  nonsense,  I  say  you  shall  come ! 
Vive  la  joie!  " 

While  speaking,  he  had  linked  his  arm  in  Morton's,  and 
hurried  him  on  several  paces  in  spite  of  his  struggles;  but 
just  as  the  words  "  Vive  la  joie  "  left  his  lips,  he  stood  still 
and  mute,  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  at  his  feet;  and 
Morton  felt  that  heavy  arm  shiver  and  tremble  like  a  leaf. 
He  looked  up,  and  just  at  the  entrance  of  that  part  of  the 
Palais  Koyal  in  which  are  situated  the  restaurants  of  Verey 
and  Vefour,  he  saw  two  men  standing  but  a  few  paces  before 
them,  and  gazing  full  on  Gawtrey  and  himself. 

"It  is  my  evil  genius,"  muttered  Gawtrey,  grinding  his 
teeth. 

"  And  mine !  "  said  Morton. 

The  younger  of  the  two  men  thus  apostrophized  made  a 
step  towards  Philip,  when  his  companion  drew  him  back  and 
whispered,  "What  are  you  about, —  do  you  know  that  young 
man?  " 

"He  is  my  cousin;  Philip  Beaufort's  natural  son!  " 

"Is  he?  then  discard  him  forever.  He  is  with  the  most 
dangerous  knave  in  Europe." 

As  Lord  Lilburne  — for  it  was  he  — thus  whispered  his 
nephew,  Gawtrey  strode  up  to  him,  and  glaring  full  in  his 
face,  said  in  a  deep  and  hollow  tone:  "There  is  a  hell,  my 
lord,—  I  go  to  drink  to  our  meeting!  "  Thus  saying,  he  took 
off  his  hat  with  a  ceremonious  mockery,  and  disappeared 
within  the  adjoining  resta^irant,  kept  by  Vefour. 

"A  hell,"  said  Lilburne,  with  his  frigid  smile,  —  "the 
rogue's  head  runs  upon  gamhllng-houses !  " 

"And  I  have  suffered  Philip  again  to  escape  me,"  said 
Arthur,  in  self-reproach;  for  while  Gawtrey  had  addressed 
Lord  Lilburne,  Morton  had  plunged  back  amidst  the  labyrinth 
of  alleys.     "How  have  I  kept  my  oath?" 

"Come!  your  guests  must  have  arrived  by  this  time.  As 
for  that  wretched  young  man,  depend  upon  it  that  he  is 
corrupted  body  and  soul." 

17 


258  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"But  he  is  my  own  cousin." 

"Pooh!  there  is  no  relationship  in  natural  children;  he- 
sides,  he  will  find  you.  out  fast  enough.  Eagged  claimants 
are  not  long  too  proud  to  beg." 

"You  speak  in  earnest?"  said  Arthur,  irresolutely. 

"Ay;   trust  my  experience  of  the  world.     Allo7is/" 

And  in  a  cabinet  of  the  very  restaurant  adjoining  that  in 
which  the  solitary  Gawtrey  gorged  his  conscience,  Lilburne, 
Arthur,  and  their  gay  friends,  soon  forgetful  of  all  but  the 
roses  of  the  moment,  bathed  their  airy  spirits  in  the  dews 
of  the  mirthful  wine.  0  extremes  of  life!  0  Night!  0 
Morning! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Meantime  a  moving  scene  was  open  laid, 

That  lazar-house.  —  Thomson  :   Castle  of  Indolence, 

It  was  near  midnight.  At  the  mouth  of  the  lane  in  which 
Gawtrey  resided  there  stood  four  men.  Not  far  distant,  in 
the  broad  street  at  angles  with  the  lane,  were  heard  the 
wheels  of  carriages  and  the  sound  of  music.  A  lady,  fair  in 
form,  tender  of  heart,  stainless  in  repute,  was  receiving  her 
friends. 

"Monsieur  Favart,"  said  one  of  the  men  to  the  smallest  of 
the  four,  "you  understand  the  conditions,  —20,000  francs  and 
a  free  pardon?  " 

"Nothing  more  reasonable;  it  is  understood.  Still,  I  con- 
fess that  I  should  like  to  have  my  men  close  at  hand.  I  am 
not  given  to  fear,  but  this  is  a  dangerous  experiment." 

"You  knew  the  danger  beforehand  and  subscribed  to  it; 
you  must  enter  alone  with  me,  or  not  at  all.  Mark  you,  the 
men  are  sworn  to  murder  him  who  betrays  them.  Not  for 
twenty  times  20,000  francs  would  I  have  them  know  me  as 
the   informer.     My  life  were  not  worth  a  day's   purchase. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  259 

Now,  if  you  feel  secure  in  your  disguise,  all  is  safe.  You 
will  have  seen  them  at  their  work,  you  will  recognize  their 
persons,  you  can  depose  against  them  at  the  trial;  I  shall 
have  time  to  quit  France." 

"Well,  well!  as  you  please." 

"Mind,  you  must  wait  in  the  vault  with  them  till  they 
separate.  We  have  so  planted  your  men  that  whatever  street 
each  of  the  gang  takes  in  going  home,  he  can  be  seized  quietly 
and  at  once.  The  bravest  and  craftiest  of  all,  who,  though  he 
has  but  just  joined,  is  already  their  captain,  — him,  the  man  I 
told  you  of,  who  lives  in  the  house,  you  must  take  after  his 
return,  in  his  bed.  It  is  the  sixth  story  to  the  right,  remem- 
ber, —  here  is  the  key  to  his  door.  He  is  a  giant  in  strength, 
and  will  never  be  taken  alive  if  up  and  armed." 

"Ah!  I  comprehend.  Gilbert,"  and  Favart  turned  to  one 
of  his  companions  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  "  take  three  men 
besides  yourself,  according  to  the  directions  I  gave  you,  — the 
porter  will  admit  you;  that's  arranged.  Make  no  noise.  If 
1  don't  return  by  four  o'clock,  don't  wait  for  me,  but  proceed 
at  once.  Look  well  to  your  primings.  Take  him  alive,  if 
possible ;  at  the  worst,  dead.     And  now,  mon  ami,  lead  on !  " 

The  traitor  nodded,  and  walked  slowly  down  the  street. 
Favart,  pausing,  whispered  hastily  to  the  man  whom  he  had 
called  Gilbert,  — 

"  Follow  me  close,  get  to  the  door  of  the  cellar,  place  eight 
men  within  hearing  of  my  whistle;  recollect  the  picklocks, 
the  axes.  If  you  hear  the  whistle,  break  in;  if  not,  I  'm  safe, 
and  the  first  orders  to  seize  the  captain  in  his  room  stand 
good." 

So  saying,  Favart  strode  after  his  guide.  The  door  of  a 
large  but  ill-favoured-looking  house  stood  ajar;  they  entered, 
passed  unmolested  through  a  courtyard,  descended  some 
stairs;  the  guide  unlocked  the  door  of  a  cellar  and  took  a 
dark-lantern  from  under  his  cloak.  As  he  drew  up  the  slide, 
the  dim  light  gleamed  on  barrels  and  wine-casks,  which  ap- 
peared to  fill  up  the  space.  Eolling  aside  one  of  these,  the 
guide  lifted  a  trap-door  and  lowered  his  lantern.  "Enter," 
said  he ;  and  the  two  men  disappeared. 


260  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

The  coiners  were  at  their  work.  A  man  seated  on  a  stool  be- 
fore a  desk  was  entering  accounts  in  a  large  book  (that  man  was 
William  Gawtrey),  while  with  the  rapid  precision  of  honest 
mechanics,  the  machinery  of  the  Dark  Trade  went  on  in  its 
several  departments.  Apart,  alone,  at  the  foot  of  a  long 
table,  sat  Philip  Morton.  The  truth  had  exceeded  his  dark- 
est suspicions.  He  had  consented  to  take  the  oath  not  to 
divulge  what  was  to  be  given  to  his  survey;  and  when,  led 
into  that  vault,  the  bandage  was  taken  from  his  eyes,  it  was 
some  minutes  before  he  could  fully  comprehend  the  desperate 
and  criminal  occupations  of  the  wild  forms  amidst  which 
towered  the  burly  stature  of  his  benefactor.  As  the  truth 
slowly  grew  upon  him  he  shrank  from  the  side  of  Gawtrey; 
but  deep  compassion  for  his  friend's  degradation  swallowing 
up  the  horror  of  the  trade,  he  flung  himself  on  one  of  the  rude 
seats,  and  felt  that  the  bond  between  them  was  indeed  broken, 
and  that  the  next  morning  he  should  be  again  alone  in  the 
world.  Still,  as  the  obscene  jests,  the  fearful  oaths,  that 
from  time  to  time  rang  through  the  vault,  came  on  his  ear,  he 
cast  his  haughty  eye  in  such  disdain  over  the  groups  that 
Gawtrey,  observing  him,  trembled  for  his  safety,  and  nothing 
but  Philip's  sense  of  his  own  impotence,  and  the  brave,  not 
timorous,  desire  not  to  perish  by  such  hands,  kept  silent  the 
fiery  denunciations  of  a  nature  still  proud  and  honest,  that 
quivered  on  his  lips.  All  present  were  armed  with  pistols 
and  cutlasses  except  Morton,  who  suffered  the  weapons  pre- 
sented to  him  to  lie  unheeded  on  the  table. 

"  Courage,  mes  amis ! "  said  Gawtrey,  closing  his  book,  — 
"courage!  A  few  months  more,  and  we  shall  have  made 
enough  to  retire  upon  and  enjoy  ourselves  for  the  rest  of  our 
days.     Where  is  Birnie?" 

"Did  he  not  tell  you?  "  said  one  of  the  artisans,  looking  up. 
"  He  has  found  out  the  cleverest  hand  in  France,  —  the  very 
fellow  who  helped  Bouchard  in  all  his  five-franc  pieces.  He 
has  promised  to  bring  him  to-night." 

"Ay,  I  remember,"  returned  Gawtrey;  "he  told  me  this 
morning,  —  he  is  a  famous  decoy !  " 

"I  think  so  indeed!"  quoth  a  coiner;  " for  he  caught  you, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  261 

the  best  head  to  our  hands  that  ever  les  industriels  were 
blessed  with,  sacH  fichtre  !  " 

"Flatterer!"  said  Gawtrey,  coming  from  the  desk  to  the 
table  and  pouring  out  wine  from  one  of  the  bottles  into  a  huge 
flagon.     "  To  your  healths !  " 

Here  the  door  slided  back,  and  Birnie  glided  in. 

"  Where  is  your  booty,  mon  brave  ?  "  said  Gawtrey.  "  We 
only  coin  money ;  you  coin  men,  stamp  with  your  own  seal, 
and  send  them  current  to  the  devil !  " 

The  coiners,  who  liked  Birnie's  ability  (for  the  ci-devant 
engraver  was  of  admirable  skill  in  their  craft)  but  who  hated 
his  joyless  manners,  laughed  at  this  taunt,  which  Birnie  did 
not  seem  to  heed,  except  by  a  malignant  gleam  of  his  dead 
eye. 

"  If  you  mean  the  celebrated  coiner,  Jacques  Giraumont,  he 
waits  without.  You  know  our  rules.  I  cannot  admit  him 
without  leave." 

^^Bon!  we  give  it,  eh,  Messieurs?"  said  Gawtrey. 

"  Ay,  ay !  "  cried  several  voices.  "  He  knows  the  oath,  and 
will  hear  the  penalty." 

"Yes,  he  knows  the  oath,"  replied  Birnie,  and  glided  back. 

In  a  moment  more  he  returned  with  a  small  man  in  a 
mechanic's  blouse.  The  new  comer  wore  the  republican  beard 
and  mustache,  of  a  sandy  gray ;  his  hair  was  the  same  colour, 
and  a  black  patch  over  one  eye  increased  the  ill-favoured  ap- 
pearance of  his  features. 

"  Didble,  Monsieur  Giraumont,  but  you  are  more  like  Vulcan 
than  Adonis !  "  said  Gawtrey. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  Vulcan,  but  I  know  how  to 
make  five-franc  pieces,"  said  M.  Giraumont,  doggedly. 

"Are  you  poor?" 

"  As  a  church  mouse,  —  the  only  thing  belonging  to  a 
church,  since  the  Bourbons  came  back,  that  is  poor !  " 

At  this  sally  the  coiners,  who  had  gathered  round  the  table, 
uttered  the  shout  with  which,  in  all  circumstances.  French- 
men receive  a  bon  mot. 

"Humph!"  said  Gawtrey.  "Who  responds  with  his  own 
life  for  your  fidelity?" 


262  NIGHT   AND  MORXIXG. 

"I,"  said  Birnie. 

"Administer  the  oath  to  him." 

Suddenly  four  men  advanced,  seized  the  visitor,  and  bore 
him  from  the  vault  into  another  one  within.  After  a  few- 
moments  they  returned. 

"He  has  taken  the  oath  and  heard  the  penalty." 

"Death  to  yourself,  your  wife,  your  son,  and  your  grand- 
son, if  you  betray  us !  " 

"  I  have  neither  son  nor  grandson;  as  for  my  wife.  Monsieur 
le  Capitaine,  you  offer  a  bribe  instead  of  a  threat  when  you 
talk  of  her  death !  " 

"  Sacre !  but  you  will  be  an  addition  to  our  circle,  mon 
hrave!"  said  Gawtrey,  laughing;  while  again  the  grim  circle 
shouted  applause. 

"But  I  suppose  you  care  for  your  own  life?" 

"Otherwise  I  shovdd  have  preferred  starving  to  coming 
here,"  answered  the  laconic  neophyte. 

"  I  have  done  with  you.     Your  health !  " 

On  this  the  coiners  gathered  round  M.  Giraumont,  shook 
him  by  the  hand,  and  commenced  many  questions  with  a  view 
to  ascertain  his  skill. 

"  Show  me  your  coinage  first,  —  I  see  you  use  both  the  die 
and  the  furnace.  Hem !  this  piece  is  Hot  bad,  —  you  have 
struck  it  from  an  iron  die?  Eight,  it  makes  the  impression 
sharper  than  plaster  of  Paris.  But  you  take  the  poorest  and 
the  most  dangerous  part  of  the  trade  in  taking  the  home 
market.  I  can  put  you  in  a  way  to  make  ten  times  as  much, 
and  with  safety.  Look  at  this !  "  and  ]M.  Giraumont  took  a 
forged  Spanish  dollar  from  his  pocket,  so  skilfully  manufac- 
tured that  the  connoisseurs  were  lost  in  admiration.  "  You 
may  pass  thousands  of  these  all  over  Europe,  except  France, 
and  who  is  ever  to  detect  you?  But  it  will  require  better 
machinery  than  you  have  here." 

Thus  conversing,  M.  Giraumont  did  not  perceive  that  Mr. 
Gawtrey  had  been  examining  him  very  curiously  and  minutely. 
But  Birnie  had  noted  their  chief's  attention,  and  once  at- 
tempted to  join  his  new  ally,  when  Gawtrey  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  stopped  him. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  263 

"Do  not  speak  to  your  friend  till  I  bid  you,  or  — "  he 
stopped  short,  and  touched  his  pistols. 

Birnie  grew  a  shade  more  pale,  hut  replied,  with  his  usual 
sneer,  — 

"  Suspicious !  Well,  so  much  the  better !  "  and  seating  him- 
self carelessly  at  the  table,  lighted  his  pipe. 

"And  now,  Monsieur  Giraumont,"  said  Gawtrey,  as  he  took 
the  head  of  the  table,  "  come  to  my  right  hand.  A  half-holi- 
day in  your  honour.  Clear  these  infernal  instruments,  and 
more  wine,  rries  amis  !  " 

The  party  arranged  themselves  at  the  table.  Among  the 
desperate  there  is  almost  invariably  a  tendency  to  mirth.  A 
solitary  ruffian,  indeed,  is  moody,  but  a  gang  of  ruffians  are 
jovial.  The  coiners  talked  and  laughed  loud.  Mr.  Birnie, 
from  his  dogged  silence,  seemed  apart  from  the  rest,  though 
in  the  centre;  for  in  a  noisy  circle  a  silent  tongue  builds  a 
wall  round  its  owner.  But  that  respectable  personage  kept 
his  furtive  watch  upon  Giraumont  and  Gawtrey,  who  appeared 
talking  together  very  amicably.  The  younger  novice  of  that 
night,  equally  silent,  seated  towards  the  bottom  of  the  table, 
was  not  less  watchful  than  Birnie,  An  uneasy,  undefinable 
foreboding  had  come  over  him  since  the  entrance  of  M.  Girau- 
mont ;  this  had  been  increased  by  the  manner  of  Mr.  Gawtrey. 
His  faculty  of  observation,  which  was  very  acute,  had  detected 
something  false  in  the  chief's  blandness  to  their  guest,  — 
something  dangerous  in  the  glittering  eye  that  Gawtrey  ever, 
as  he  spoke  to  Giraumont,  bent  on  that  person's  lips  as  he 
listened  to  his  reply;  for  whenever  William  Gawtrey  sus- 
pected a  man,  he  watched,  not  his  eyes,  but  his  lips. 

Waked  from  his  scornful  revery,  a  strange  spell  chained 
Morton's  attention  to  the  chief  and  the  guest,  and  he  bent 
forward,  with  parted  mouth  and  straining  ear,  to  catch  their 
conversation. 

"It  seems  to  me  a  little  strange,"  said  Mr.  Gawtrey,  raising 
his  voice  so  as  to  be  heard  by  the  party,  "  that  a  coiner  so 
dexterous  as  M.  Giraumont  should  not  be  known  to  any  of  us 
except  our  friend  Birnie." 

"Not  at   all,"  replied   Giraumont;    "I  worked  only  with 


264  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

Bouchard  and  two  others  since  sent  to  the  galleys.     We  were 
but  a  small  fraternity,  — everything  has  its  commencement." 

"C'est  juste;  buvez,  done,  cherami!"^ 

The  wine  circulated.     Gawtrey  began  again,  — 

"  You  have  had  a  bad  accident,  seemingly,  Monsieur  Girau- 
mont.     How  did  you  lose  your  eye?  " 

"In  a  scuffle  with  the  gendarmes  the  night  Bouchard  was 
taken  and  I  escaped.     Such  misfortunes  are  on  the  cards." 

"C'est  juste;  buvez,  done,  Monsieur  Giraumont !"  ^ 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  and  again  Gawtrey's  deep  voice 
was  heard. 

"You  wear  a  wig,  I  think.  Monsieur  Giraumont?  To  judge 
by  your  eyelashes,  your  own  hair  has  been  a  handsomer 
colour." 

"We  seek  disguise,  not  beauty,  my  host;  and  the  police 
have  sharp  eyes." 

"  C'est  juste ;  buvez,  done,  —  vieux  renard !  ^  When  did  we 
two  meet  last?  " 

"Never,  that  I  know  of." 

"Ce  n'est  pas  vrai!  buvez,  done,  Monsieur  Favart!"* 

At  the  sound  of  that  name  the  company  started  in  dismay 
and  confusion,  and  the  police  officer,  forgetting  himself  for 
the  moment,  sprang  from  his  seat  and  put  his  right  hand  into 
his  blouse. 

"  Ho,  there,  treason !  "  cried  Gawtrey,  in  a  voice  of  thunder ; 
and  he  caught  the  unhappy  man  by  the  throat. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  Morton,  where  he  sat,  beheld 
a  struggle,  he  heard  a  death-cry.  He  saw  the  huge  form  of 
the  master-coiner  rising  above  all  the  rest  as  cutlasses  gleamed 
and  eyes  sparkled  round.  He  saw  the  quivering  and  power- 
less frame  of  the  unhappy  guest  raised  aloft  in  those  mighty 
arms,  and  presently  it  was  hurled  along  the  table,  — bottles 
crashing,  the  board  shaking  beneath  its  weight,  —  and  lay 
before  the  very  eyes  of  Morton,  a  distorted  and  lifeless  mass. 

1  "  That 's  right ;  drink,  then,  dear  friend." 

2  "That 's  right ;  drink,  then,  Monsieur  Giraumont." 
8  "  That 's  right ;  drink,  then,  oM  fox." 

*  "That  V  not  true;  drink,  then,  Monsieur  Favart.  " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  265 

At  the  same  instant  Gawtrey  sprang  upon  the  table,  his  black 
frown  singling  out  from  the  group  the  ashen,  cadaverous  face 
of  the  shrinking  traitor.  Birnie  had  darted  from  the  table; 
he  was  half  way  towards  the  sliding  door;  his  face,  turned 
over  his  shoulder,  met  the  eyes  of  the  chief. 

"Devil!"  shouted  Gawtrey,  in  his  terrible  voice,  which  the 
echoes  of  the  vault  gave  back  from  side  to  side,  "  did  I  not 
give  thee  up  my  soul,  that  thou  mightest  not  compass  my 
death?  Hark  ye!  thus  die  my  slavery  and  all  our  secrets!" 
The  explosion  of  his  pistol  half  swallowed  up  the  last  word, 
and  with  a  single  groan  the  traitor  fell  on  the  floor,  pierced 
through  the  brain ;  then  there  was  a  dead  and  grim  hush  as 
the  smoke  rolled  slowly  along  the  roof  of  the  dreary  vault. 

Morton  sank  back  on  his  seat  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  The  last  seal  on  the  fate  of  The  Max  of  Crime  was 
set ;  the  last  wave  in  the  terrible  and  mysterious  tide  of  his 
destiny  had  dashed  on  his  soul  to  the  shore  whence  there  is 
no  return.  Vain,  now  and  henceforth,  the  humour,  the  senti- 
ment, the  kindly  impulse,  the  social  instincts  which  had 
invested  that  stalwart  shape  with  dangerous  fascination, 
which  had  implied  the  hope  of  ultimate  repentance,  of 
redemption  even  in  this  world.  The  Hour  and  the  Cir- 
cuMSTAxcE  had  scized  their  prey,  and  the  self-defence,  which 
a  lawless  career  rendered  a  necessity,  left  the  eternal  die  of 
blood  upon  his  doom. 

"Friends,  I  have  saved  you,"  said  Gawtrey,  slowly  gazing 
on  the  corpse  of  his  second  victim  while  he  returned  the  pis- 
tol to  his  belt.  "I  have  not  quailed  before  this  man's  eye," 
and  he  spurned  the  clay  of  the  officer  as  he  spoke,  with  a 
revengeful  scorn,  "without  treasuring  up  its  aspect  in  my 
heart  of  hearts.  I  knew  him  when  he  entered,  knew  him 
through  his  disguise ;  yet,  faith,  it  was  a  clever  one !  Turn 
up  his  face  and  gaze  on  him  now;  he  will  never  terrify  us 
again,  unless  there  be  truth  in  ghosts !" 

Murmuring  and  tremulous,  the  coiners  scrambled  on  the 
table  and  examined  the  dead  man.  From  this  task  Gawtrey 
interrupted  them,  for  his  quick  eye  detected,  with  the  pistols 
under  the  policeman's  blouse,  a  whistle  of  metal  of  curious 


'266  NIGHT  AND    MORNING. 

construction,  and  he  conjectured  at  once  that  danger  was  yet 
at  hand. 

"  I  have  saved  you,  I  say,  but  only  for  the  hour.  This  deed 
cannot  sleep.  See,  he  had  help  within  call;  the  police  knew 
where  to  look  for  their  comrade.  We  are  dispersed.  Each 
for  himself.     Quick,  divide  the  spoils!     Sauve  qui  pent !  ^' 

Then  Morton  heard  where  he  sat,  his  hands  still  clasped 
before  his  face,  a  confused  hubbub  of  voices,  the  jingle  of 
money,  the  scrambling  of  feet,  the  creaking  of  doors.  All 
was  silent. 

A  strong  grasp  drew  his  hands  from  his  eyes. 

"Your  first  scene  of  life  against  life,"  said  Gawtrey's  voice, 
which  seemed  fearfully  changed  to  the  ear  that  heard  it. 
"Bah!  what  would  you  think  of  a  battle?  Come  to  our 
eyrie;   the  carcasses  are  gone." 

Morton  looked  fearfully  round  the  vault.  He  and  Gawtrey 
were  alone.  His  eyes  sought  the  places  where  the  dead  had 
lain,  — they  were  removed;  no  vestige  of  the  deeds,  not  even 
a  drop  of  blood. 

"  Come,  take  up  your  cutlass,  come !  "  repeated  the  voice  of 
the  chief,  as  with  his  dim  lantern  —  now  the  sole  light  of  the 
vault  —  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway. 

Morton  rose,  took  up  the  weapon  mechanically,  and  fol- 
lowed that  terrible  guide,  mute  and  unconscious,  as  a  Soul 
follows  a  Dream  through  the  House  of  Sleep ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

Sleep  no  more !  —  Macbeth. 

After  winding  through  gloomy  and  labyrinthine  passages 
which  conducted  to  a  different  range  of  cellars  from  those 
entered  by  the  unfortunate  Favart,  Gawtrey  emerged  at  the 
foot  of  a  flight  of  stairs,  which,  dark,  narrow,  and  in  many 
places  broken,  had  been  probably  appropriated  to  servants  of 


NIGHT  AND    MORNING.  267 

the  house  in  its  days  of  palmier  glory.  By  these  steps  the 
pair  regained  their  attic.  Gawtrey  placed  the  lantern  on  the 
table  and  seated  himself  in  silence.  Morton,  who  had  recov- 
ered his  self-possession  and  formed  his  resolution,  gazed  on 
him  for  some  moments,  equally  taciturn.    At  length  he  spoke. 

"Gawtrey!" 

"I  bade  you  not  call  me  by  that  name,"  said  the  coiner; 
for  we  need  scarcely  say  that  in  his  new  trade  he  had  assumed 
a  new  appellation. 

"It  is  the  least  guilty  one  by  which  I  have  known  you," 
returned  Morton,  firmly;  "it  is  for  the  last  time  I  call  you 
by  it!  I  demanded  to  see  by  what  means  one  to  whom  I  had 
intrusted  my  fate  supported  himself.  I  have  seen,'^  continued 
the  young  man,  still  firmly,  but  with  a  livid  cheek  and  lip, 
"and  the  tie  between  us  is  rent  forever.  Interrupt  me  not; 
it  is  not  for  me  to  blame  you.  I  have  eaten  of  your  bread 
and  drunk  of  your  cup.  Confiding  in  you  too  blindly,  and 
believing  that  you  were  at  least  free  from  those  dark  and  ter- 
rible crimes  for  which  there  is  no  expiation,  —  at  least  in  this 
life, — my  conscience  seared  by  distress,  my  very  soul  made 
dormant  by  despair,  I  surrendered  myself  to  one  leading  a 
career  equivocal,  suspicious,  dishonourable,  perhaps,  but  still 
not,  as  I  believed,  of  atrocity  and  bloodshed.  I  wake  at  the 
brink  of  the  abyss;  my  mother's  hand  beckons  to  me  from 
the  grave;  I  think  I  hear  her  voice  while  I  address  you;  I 
recede  while  it  is  yet  time, — we  part,   and  forever!" 

Gawtrey,  whose  stormy  passion  was  still  deep  upon  his 
soul,  had  listened  hitherto  in  sullen  and  dogged  silence,  with 
a  gloomy  frown  on  his  knitted  brow;  he  now  rose  with  an 
oath. 

"Part,  that  I  may  let  loose  on  the  world  a  new  traitor! 
Part,  when  you  have  seen  me  fresh  from  an  act  that,  once 
whispered,  gives  me  to  the  guillotine!  Part,  never,  —  at  least 
alive ! " 

"I  have  said  it,"  said  Morton,  folding  his  arms  calmly;  "I 
say  it  to  your  face,  though  I  might  part  from  you  in  secret. 
Frown  not  on  me,  man  of  blood!  I  am  fearless  as  yourself! 
In  another  minute  I  am  gone." 


268  NIGHT  AND    MORXIXG. 

"Ah!  is  it  so?"  said  Gawtrey;  and  glancing  round  the 
room,  which  contained  two  doors, —  the  one  concealed  by  the 
draperies  of  a  bed,  communicating  with  the  stairs  by  which 
they  had  entered,  the  other  with  the  landing  of  the  principal 
and  common  flight,  —  he  turned  to  the  former,  within  his 
reach,  which  he  locked  and  put  the  key  into  his  pocket,  and 
then,  throwing  across  the  latter  a  heavy  swing  bar,  which 
fell  into  its  socket  with  a  harsh  noise,  before  the  threshold 
he  placed  his  vast  bulk  and  burst  into  his  loud,  fierce  laugh, 
—  "  Ho !  ho !  slave  and  fool,  once  mine,  you  were  mine  body 
and  soul  forever! " 

"Tempter,  I  defy  you;  stand  back!"  and,  firm  and  daunt- 
less, Morton  laid  his  hand  on  the  giant's  vest. 

Gawtrey  seemed  more  astonished  than  enraged.  He  looked 
hard  at  his  daring  associate,  on  whose  lip  the  down  was  yet 
scarcely  dark. 

"Boy,"  said  he,  "off!  Do  not  rouse  the  devil  in  me  again! 
I  could  crush  you  with  a  hug." 

"  My  soul  supports  my  body,  and  I  am  armed, "  said  ^Morton, 
laying  hand  on  his  cutlass.  "But  you  dare  not  harm  me,  nor 
I  you;  bloodstained  as  you  are,  you  gave  me  shelter  and 
bread.  But  accuse  me  not  that  I  will  save  my  soul  while  it 
is  yet  time !  Shall  my  mother  have  blessed  me  in  vain  upon 
her  death-bed?  " 

Gawtrey  drew  back,  and  Morton,  by  a  sudden  impulse, 
grasped  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  hear  me,  hear  me !  "  he  cried,  with  great  emotion. 
"Abandon  this  horrible  career;  you  have  been  decoyed  and 
betrayed  to  it  by  one  who  can  deceive  or  terrify  you  no  more  I 
Abandon  it,  and  I  will  never  desert  you.  For  her  sake  —  for 
your  Fanny's  sake  —  pause,  like  me,  before  the  gulf  swallow 
us.  Let  us  fly, —  far  to  the  Xew  World;  to  any  land  where 
our  thews  and  sinews,  our  stout  hands  and  hearts,  can  find 
an  honest  mart!  Men  desperate  as  we  are  have  yet  risen  by 
honest  means.  Take  her,  your  orphan,  with  us.  We  will 
work  for  her,  both  of  us.  Gawtrey,  hear  me!  It  is  not  my 
voice  that  speaks  to  you,  it  is  your  good  angel's!  " 

Gawtrey  fell  back  against  the  wall,  and  his  chest  heaved. 


NIGHT  AND    MORNING.  2G9 

"Morton,"  he  said,  with  choked  and  tremulous  accent,  "go 
now;  leave  me  to  my  fate!  I  have  sinned  against  you, — 
shamefully  sinned.  It  seemed  to  me  so  sweet  to  have  a 
friend.  In  your  youth  and  character  of  mind  there  was  so 
much  about  which  the  tough  strings  of  my  heart  wound 
themselves  that  I  could  not  bear  to  lose  you,  to  suffer  you  to 
know  me  for  what  I  was.  I  blinded,  I  deceived  you  as  to  my 
past  deeds,  —  that  was  base  in  me ;  but  I  swore  to  my  own 
heart  to  keep  you  unexposed  to  every  danger  and  free  from 
every  vice  that  darkened  my  own  path.  I  kept  that  oath  till 
this  night,  when,  seeing  that  you  began  to  recoil  from  me, 
and  dreading  that  you  should  desert  me,  I  thought  to  bind 
you  to  me  forever  by  implicating  you  in  this  fellowship  of 
crime.  I  am  punished,  and  justly.  Go,  I  repeat;  leave  me 
to  the  fate  that  strides  nearer  and  nearer  to  me  day  by  day. 
You  are  a  boy  still, —  I  am  no  longer  young.  Habit  is  a 
second  nature.  Still,  still  I  could  repent, —  I  could  begin 
life  again.  But  repose!  To  look  back,  to  remember,  to  be 
haunted  night  and  day  with  deeds  that  shall  meet  me  bodily 
and  face  to  face  on  the  last  day  — " 

"Add  not  to  the  spectres!  Come,  fly  this  night,  this 
hour!" 

Gawtrey  paused,  irresolute  and  wavering,  when  at  that 
moment  he  heard  steps  on  the  stairs  below.  He  started,  as 
starts  the  boar  caught  in  his  lair,  and  listened,  pale  and 
breathless. 

"  Hush !  they  are  on  us ;  they  come !  "  As  he  whispered, 
the  key  from  without  turned  in  the  wards,  the  door  shook. 
"Soft!  the  bar  preserves  us  both,  —  this  way;"  and  the 
coiner  crept  to  the  door  of  the  private  stairs.  He  unlocked 
and  opened  it  cautiously.  A  man  sprang  through  the 
aperture. 

"Yield!     You  are  my  prisoner!  " 

"Never!"  cried  Gawtrey,  hurling  back  the  intruder  and 
clapping  to  the  door,  though  other  and  stout  men  were  press- 
ing against  it  with  all  their  power. 

"Ho,  ho!     Who  shall  open  the  tiger's  cage?" 


270  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

At  both  doors  noAv  were  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  "  Open 
in  the  king's  name,  or  expect  no  mercy!  " 

"Hist!  "  said  Gawtrey.  "One  way  yet, —  the  window;  the 
rope." 

Morton  opened  the  casement,  Gawtrey  uncoiled  the  rope. 
The  dawn  was  breaking;  it  was  light  in  the  streets,  but  all 
seemed  quiet  without.  The  doors  reeled  and  shook  beneath 
the  pressure  of  the  pursuers.  Gawtrey  flung  the  rope  across 
the  street  to  the  opposite  parapet;  after  two  or  three  efforts 
the  grappling-hook  caught  firm  hold, —  the  perilous  path  was 
made. 

"On!  quick!  loiter  not!"  whispered  Gawtrey.  "You  are 
active;  it  seems  more  dangerous  than  it  is, —  cling  with  both 
hands,  shut  your  eyes.  "When  on  the  other  side,  —  you  see 
the  window  of  Birnie's  room,  enter  it,  descend  the  stairs,  let 
yourself  out,  and  you  are  safe." 

"Go  first,"  said  Morton,  in  the  same  tone;  "I  will  not 
leave  you  now.  You  will  be  longer  getting  across  than  I 
shall.     I  will  keep  guard  till  you  are  over." 

"Hark!  hark!  Are  you  mad?  You  keep  guard!  What 
is  your  strength  to  mine?  Twenty  men  shall  not  move  that 
door  while  my  weight  is  against  it.  Quick,  or  you  destroy 
us  both!  Besides,  you  will  hold  the  rope  for  me;  it  may  not 
be  strong  enough  for  my  bulk  in  itself.  Stay,  stay  one 
moment!  If  you  escape,  and  I  fall, —  Fanny  —  my  father,  he 
will  take  care  of  her.  You  remember  —  thauks!  Forgive  me 
all!     Go;  that's  right!" 

With  a  firm  pulse,  Morton  threw  himself  on  the  dreadful 
bridge;  it  swung  and  crackled  at  his  weight.  Shifting  his 
grasp  rapidly,  holding  his  breath,  with  set  teeth,  with  closed 
eyes,  he  moved  on,  he  gained  the  parapet,  he  stood  safe  on 
the  opposite  side.  And  now,  straining  his  eyes  across,  he 
saw  through  the  open  casement  into  the  chamber  he  had  just 
quitted.  Gawtrey  was  still  standing  against  the  door  to  the 
principal  staircase,  for  that  of  the  two  was  the  weaker  and 
the  more  assailed.  Presently  the  explosion  of  a  firearm  was 
heard;   they  had  shot  through  the  panel.     Gawtrey  seemed 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  271 

wounded,  for  lie  staggered  forward  and  uttered  a  fierce  cry; 
a  moment  more,  and  he  gained  the  window,  he  seized  the 
rope,  he  hung  over  the  tremendous  depth !  Morton  knelt  by 
the  parapet,  holding  the  grappling  hook  in  its  place  with  con- 
vulsive grasp,  and  fixing  his  eyes,  bloodshot  with  fear  and 
suspense,  on  the  huge  bulk  that  clung  for  life  to  that  slender 
cord! 

"Le  voila!  Le  voilk!  "  cried  a  voice  from  the  opposite  side. 
Morton  raised  his  gaze  from  Gawtrey;  the  casement  was 
darkened  by  the  forms  of  his  pursuers,  they  had  burst  into 
the  room.  An  officer  sprang  upon  the  parapet,  and  Gawtrey, 
now  aware  of  his  danger,  opened  his  eyes,  and  as  he  moved  on, 
glared  upon  the  foe.  The  policeman  deliberately  raised  his 
pistol.  Gawtrey  arrested  himself;  from  a  wound  in  his  side 
the  blood  trickled  slowly  and  darkly  down,  drop  by  drop, 
upon  the  stones  below.  Even  the  officers  of  law  shuddered  as 
they  eyed  him,  his  hair  bristling,  his  cheek  white,  his  lips 
drawn  convulsively  from  his  teeth,  and  his  eyes  glaring  from 
beneath  the  frown  of  agony  and  menace  in  which  yet  spoke 
the  indomitable  power  and  fierceness  of  the  man.  His  look 
so  fixed,  so  intense,  so  stern,  awed  the  policeman;  his  hand 
trembled  as  he  fired,  and  the  ball  struck  the  parapet  an  !nch 
below  the  spot  where  Morton  knelt.  An  indistinct,  wild, 
gurgling  sound  —  half  laugh,  half  yell  of  scorn  and  glee  — 
broke  from  Gawtrey's  lips.  He  swung  himself  on,  near, 
near,  nearer, — a  yard  from  the  parapet. 

"  You  are  saved ! "  cried  Morton,  when  at  the  moment  a 
volley  burst  from  the  fatal  casement.  The  smoke  rolled  over 
both  the  fugitives ;  a  groan,  or  rather  howl,  of  rage  and  de- 
spair and  agony  appalled  even  the  hardest  on  whose  ear  it 
came.  Morton  sprang  to  his  feet  and  looked  below.  He  saw 
on  the  rugged  stones,  far  down,  a  dark,  formless,  motionless 
mass.  The  strong  man  of  passion  and  levity,  the  giant  who 
had  played  with  life  and  soul  as  an  infant  with  the  baubles 
that  it  prizes  and  breaks,  was  what  the  Caesar  and  the  leper 
alike  are  when  the  clay  is  without  God's  breath, — what 
glory,  genius,  power,  and  beauty  would  be  forever  and  for- 
ever if  there  were  no  God  I 


272  NIGHT   AXD  MORNING. 

"  There  is  another !  "  cried  the  voice  of  one  of  the  pursuers. 
"Fire!" 

"Poor  Gawtrey!"  muttered  Philip.  "I  will  fulfil  your 
last  wish;  "  and  scarcely  conscious  of  the  bullet  that  whistled 
by  him,  he  disappeared  behind  the  parapet. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Gently  moved 
By  the  soft  wiud  of  whispering  silks.  —  Decker. 

The  reader  may  remember  that  while  M.  Favart  and  Mr. 
Birnie  were  holding  commune  in  the  lane,  the  sounds  of  fes- 
tivity were  heard  from  a  house  in  the  adjoining  street.  To 
that  house  we  are  now  summoned. 

At  Paris,  the  gayeties  of  balls  or  soirees  are,  I  believe,  very 
rare  in  that  period  of  the  year  in  which  they  are  most  fre- 
quent in  London.  The  entertainment  now  given  was  in  hon- 
our of  a  christening ;  the  lady  who  gave  it,  a  relation  of  the 
new-born. 

Madame  de  Merville  was  a  young  widow.  Even  before  her 
marriage  she  had  been  distinguished  in  literature;  she  had 
written  poems  of  more  than  common  excellence;  and  being 
handsome,  of  good  family,  and  large  fortune,  her  talents 
made  her  an  object  of  more  interest  than  they  might  other- 
wise have  done.  Her  poetry  showed  great  sensibility  and 
tenderness.  If  poetry  be  any  index  to  the  heart,  you  would 
have  thought  her  one  to  love  truly  and  deeply.  Neverthe- 
less, since  she  married, —  as  girls  in  France  do, — not  to  please 
herself,  but  her  parents,  she  made  a  marlage  de  convenance. 
M.  de  Merville  was  a  sober,  sensible  man,  past  middle  age. 
Not  being  fond  of  poetry,  and  by  no  means  coveting  a  profes- 
sional author  for  his  wife,  he  had  during  their  union,  which 
lasted  four  years,  discouraged  his  wife's  liaison  with  Apollo. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNmG.  273 

But  her  mind,  active  and  ardent,  did  not  the  less  prey  upon 
itself.     At  the  age  of  four  and  twenty  she  became  a  widow, 
with  an  income  large  even  in  England  for  a  single  woman, 
and  at  Paris  constituting  no  ordinary  fortune.     Madame  de 
Merville,    however,  though  a  person   of   elegant   taste,   was 
neither  ostentatious  nor  selfish;  she  had  no  children,  and  she 
lived  quietly  in  apartments,  handsome,  indeed,  but  not  more 
than  adequate  to  the  small  establishment  which  —  where,  as 
on  the  Continent,  the  costly  convenience  of  an  entire  house 
is  not  usually  incurred  —  sufficed  for  her  retinue.      She  de- 
voted at  least  half  her  income,  which  was  entirely  at  her  own 
disposal,  partly  to  the  aid  of  her  own  relations,  who  were  not 
rich,  and  partly  to  the  encouragement  of  the  literature  she 
cultivated.     Although  she  shrank  from  the  ordeal  of  publica- 
tion, her  poems  and  sketches  of  romance  were  read  to  her  own 
friends,  and  possessed  an  eloquence  seldom  accompanied  with 
so  much  modesty.     Thus,  her  reputation,  though  not  blown 
about  by  the  winds,  was  high  in  her  own  circle,  and  her  posi- 
tion in  fashion  and  in  fortune  made  her  looked  up  to  by  her 
relations  as  the  head  of  her  family;    they  regarded  her  as 
femme  supirieure  ;  and  her  advice  with  them  was  equivalent  to 
a  command.     Eugenie  de  Merville  was  a  strange  mixture  of 
qualities  at  once  feminine  and  masculine.     On  the  one  hand, 
she  had  a  strong  will,  independent  views,  some  contempt  for 
the  world,  and  followed  her  own  inclinations  without  servil- 
ity to  the  opinion  of  others ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  sus- 
ceptible, romantic,  of  a  sweet,  affectionate,  kind  disposition. 
Her  visit  to  M.  Love,  however  indiscreet,  was  not  less  in  ac- 
cordance  with  her   character  than  her   charity  to   the   me- 
chanic's  wife;   masculine  and   careless   where   an   eccentric 
thing  was  to  be  done, —  curiosity  satisfied,  or  some  object  in 
female   diplomacy  achieved;    womanly,  delicate,   and  gentle 
the  instant  her   benevolence  was  appealed  to  or   her   heart 
touched.     She  had  now  been  three  years  a  widow,  and  was 
consequently  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven.     Despite  the  tender- 
ness of  her  poetry  and  her  character,  her  reputation  was  un- 
blemished.     She   had  never  been  in  love.     People  who  are 
much  occupied  do  not  fall  in  love  easily ;  besides,  Madame  de 

18 


274  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


where  she  only  met  handsome  dandies  or  ugly  authors. 
Moreover,  Eugenie  was  both  a  vain  and  a  proud  person, — 
vain  of  her  celebrity,  and  proud  of  her  birth.  She  was  one 
whose  goodness  of  heart  made  her  always  active  in  promoting 
the  happiness  of  others.  She  was  not  only  generous  and 
charitable,  but  willing  to  serve  people  by  good  offices  as  well 
as  money.  Everybody  loved  her.  The  ncAv-born  infant,  to 
whose  addition  to  the  Christian  community  the  fete  of  this 
night  was  dedicated,  was  the  pledge  of  a  union  which  Madame 
de  Merville  had  managed  to  effect  between  two  young  per- 
sons, first  cousins  to  each  other,  and  related  to  herself. 
There  had  been  scruples  of  parents  to  remove,  money  matters 
to  adjust;  Eugenie  had  smoothed  all.  The  husband  and  wife, 
still  lovers,  looked  up  to  her  as  the  author,  under  Heaven,  of 
their  happiness. 

The  gala  of  that  night  had  been,  therefore,  of  a  nature  more 
than  usually  pleasurable,  and  the  mirth  did  not  sound  hollow, 
but  rung  from  the  heart.  Yet  as  Eugenie  from  time  to  time 
contemplated  the  young  people  whose  eyes  ever  sought  each 
other,  —  so  fair,  so  tender,  and  so  joyous  did  they  seem, — a 
melancholy  shadow  darkened  her  brow,  and  she  sighed  invol- 
untarily. Once  the  young  wife,  Madame  d'Anville,  ap- 
proaching her  timidly,   said, — 

"Ah,  my  sweet  cousin,  when  shall  we  see  you  as  happy  as 
ourselves?  There  is  such  happiness,"  she  added  innocently, 
and  with  a  blush,  "in  being  a  mother!  That  little  life  all 
one's  own, —  it  is  something  to  think  of  every  hour!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Eugenie,  smiling,  and  seeking  to  turn  the 
conversation  from  a  subject  that  touched  too  nearly  upon  feel- 
ings and  thoughts  her  pride  did  not  wish  to  reveal, —  "per- 
haps it  is  you,  then,  who  have  made  our  cousin,  poor  M.  de 
Vaudemont,  so  determined  to  marry?  Pray  be  more  cautious 
with  him.  How  difficult  I  have  found  it  to  prevent  his  bring- 
ing into  our  family  some  one  to  make  us  all  ridiculous !  " 

"True,"  said  Madame  d'Anville,  laughing.  "But  then, 
the  Vicomte  is  so  poor,  and  in  debt.  He  would  fall  in  love, 
not  with  the  demoiselle,  but  the  dower.     A  propos  of  that, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  2(5 

how  cleverly  you  took  advantage  of  his  boastful  confession 
to  break  off  his  liaisons  with  that  bureau  de  mariage.^^ 

"  Yes ;  I  congratulate  myself  on  that  manoeuvre.  Unpleas- 
ant as  it  was  to  go  to  such  a  place  (for  of  course  I  could  not 
send  for  M.  Love  here),  it  would  have  been  still  more  un- 
pleasant to  receive  such  a  Madame  de  Vaudemont  as  our 
cousin  would  have  presented  to  us.  Only  think,—  he  was  the 
rival  of  an  4plcier/  I  heard  that  there  was  some  curious  d^- 
nouement  to  the  farce  of  that  establishment,  but  I  could  never 
get  from  Vaudemont  the  particulars;  he  was  ashamed  of 
them,   I  fancy," 

"  What  droll  professions  there  are  in  Paris !  "  said  Madame 
d'Anville.  "As  if  people  could  not  marry  without  going  to 
an  ofl&ce  for  a  spouse  as  we  go  for  a  servant!  And  so  the 
establishment  is  broken  up?  And  you  never  again  saw  that 
dark,  wild-looking  boy  who  so  struck  your  fancy  that  you 
have  taken  him  as  the  original  for  the  Murillo  sketch  of  the 
youth  in  that  charming  tale  you  read  to  us  the  other  even- 
ing? Ah!  cousin,  I  think  you  were  a  little  taken  with  him. 
The  bureau  de  mariage  had  its  allurements  for  you  as  well  as 
for  our  poor  cousin!  "  The  young  mother  said  this  laughingly 
and  carelessly. 

"Pooh!"  returned  Madame  de  Merville,  laughing  also ;  but 
a  slight  blush  broke  over  her  natural  paleness.  "  But  a  propos 
of  the  Vicomte,  you  know  how  cruelly  he  has  behaved  to  that 
poor  boy  of  his  by  his  English  wife, — never  seen  him  since 
he  was  an  infant ;  kept  him  at  some  school  in  England,  —  and 
all  because  his  vanity  does  not  like  the  world  to  know  that 
he  has  a  son  of  nineteen !  Well,  I  have  induced  him  to  recall 
this  poor  youth." 

"  Indeed !  and  how  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  Eugenie,  with  a  smile,  "he  wanted  a  loan, 
poor  man,  and  I  could  therefore  impose  conditions  by  way  of 
interest.  But  I  also  managed  to  conciliate  him  to  the  propo- 
sition by  representing  that  if  the  young  man  were  good-look- 
ing, he  might  himself,  with  our  connections,  etc.,  form  an 
advantageous  marriage,  and  that  in  such  a  case,  if  the  father 
treated  him  now  justly  and  kindly,  he  would  naturally  par- 


276  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

take  with  the  father  whatever  benefits  the  marriage  might 
confer." 

"Ah!  you  are  an  excellent  diplomatist,  Eugenie;  and  you 
turn  people's  heads  by  always  acting  from  your  heart.  Hush! 
here  comes  the  Vicomte." 

"A  delightful  ball,"  said  M.  de  Vaudemont,  approaching 
the  hostess.  "Pray,  has  that  young  lady  yonder,  in  the  pink 
dress,  any  fortune?  She  is  pretty,  —  eh?  You  observe  she  is 
looking  at  me  —  I  mean  at  us !  " 

"  My  dear  cousin,  what  a  compliment  you  pay  to  marriage ! 
You  have  had  two  wives,  and  you  are  ever  on  the  qui  vive 
for  a  third !  " 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?  We  cannot  resist  the  over- 
tures of  your  bewitching  sex.    Hum !  what  fortune  has  she  ?  " 

"Not  a  sou;  besides,  she  is  engaged," 

"Oh!  now  I  look  at  her,  she  is  not  pretty,  not  at  all.  I 
made  a  mistake.  I  did  not  mean  her,  I  meant  the  young 
lady  in  blue." 

"Worse  and  worse!  she  is  married  already.  Shall  I 
present  you?" 

"Ah!  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,"  said  Madame  d'Anville, 
"have  you  found  out  a  new  bureau  de  mariar/e?" 

The  Vicomte  pretended  not  to  hear  that  question,  but  turn- 
ing to  Eugenie,  took  her  aside,  and  said,  with  an  air  in  which 
he  endeavoured  to  throw  a  great  deal  of  sorrow :  "  You  know, 
my  dear  cousin,  that,  to  oblige  you,  I  consented  to  send  for 
my  son,  though,  as  I  always  said,  it  is  very  unpleasant  for  a 
man  like  me,  in  the  prime  of  life,  to  hawk  about  a  great  boy 
of  nineteen  or  twenty.  People  soon  say,  'Old  Vaudemont, 
and  young  Vaudemont.'  However,  a  father's  feelings  are 
never  appealed  to  in  vain."  Here  the  Vicomte  put  his  hand- 
kerchief to  his  eyes,  and  after  a  pause,  continued:  "I  sent 
for  him, —  I  even  went  to  your  old  bonne,  Madame  Dufour, 
to  make  a  bargain  for  her  lodgings;  and  this  day  —  guess  my 
grief  —  I  received  a  letter  sealed  with  black.  My  son  is  dead! 
A  sudden  fever, —  it  is  shocking!  " 

"Horrible!  Dead, — your  own  son,  whom  you  hardly  ever 
saw,  never  since  he  was  an  infant!  " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  277 

"Yes,  that  softens  tlie  blow  very  much.  And  now,  you 
see,  I  must  marry.  If  the  boy  had  been  good-looking  and 
like  me,  and  so  forth,  why,  as  you  observed,  he  might  have 
made  a  good  match  and  allowed  me  a  certain  sum,  or  we  could 
have  all  lived  together." 

"  And  your  son  is  dead,  and  you  come  to  a  ball !  " 
''Je  suis  philosophe,"  said  the  Vicomte,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  And,  as  you  say,  I  never  saw  him.  It  saves  me 
seven  hundred  francs  a  year.  Don't  say  a  word  to  any  one; 
I  sha'n't  give  out  that  he  is  dead,  poor  fellow !  Pray  be  dis- 
creet; you  see  there  are  some  ill-natured  people  who  might 
think  it  odd  I  do  not  shut  myself  up.  I  can  wait  till  Paris 
is  quite  empty.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  lose  any  opportunity 
at  present,  for  now,  you  see,  I  must  marry!"  And  the 
philosophe  sauntered  away. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Guiomar.  Those  devotions  I  am  to  pay 

Are  written  in  my  heart,  not  in  this  book. 
Rutilio.    I  am  pursued ;  all  the  ports  are  stopped  too,  — 
Not  any  hope  to  escape  ;  behind,  before  me, 
On  either  side,  I  am  beset. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :    The  Custom  of  the  Country. 

The  party  were  just  gone ;  it  was  already  the  peep  of  day ; 
the  wheels  of  the  last  carriage  had  died  in  the  distance. 

Madame  de  Merville  had  dismissed  her  woman  and  was 
seated  in  her  own  room,  leaning  her  head  musingly  on  her 
hand. 

Beside  her  was  the  table  that  held  her  manuscripts  and  a 
few  books,  amidst  which  were  scattered  vases  of  flowers.  On 
a  pedestal  beneath  the  window  was  placed  a  marble  bust  of 
Dante.  Through  the  open  door  were  seen  in  perspective  the 
rooms  just  deserted  by  her  guests;  the  lights  still  burned  in 


278  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

the  chandeliers  and  girandoles,  contending  with  the  daylight 
that  came  through  the  half -closed  curtains.  The  person  of 
the  inmate  jj-as  in  harmony  with  the  apartment.  It  was 
characterized  by  a  certain  grace  which,  for  want  of  a  better 
epithet,  writers  are  prone  to  call  classical  or  antique.  Her 
complexion,  seeming  paler  than  usual  by  that  light,  was  yet 
soft  and  delicate;  the  features  well  cut,  but  small  and 
womanly.  About  the  face  there  was  that  rarest  of  all  charms, 
the  combination  of  intellect  with  sweetness.  The  eyes,  of  a 
dark  blue,  were  thoughtful,  perhaps  melancholy,  in  their  ex- 
pression; but  the  long  dark  lashes,  and  the  shape  of  the  eyes, 
themselves  more  long  than  full,  gave  to  their  intelligence  a 
softness  approaching  to  languor,  increased,  perhaps,  by  that 
slight  shadow  round  and  below  the  orbs  which  is  common  with 
those  who  have  tasked  too  much  either  the  mind  or  the  heart. 
The  contour  of  the  face,  without  being  sharp  or  angular,  had 
yet  lost  a  little  of  the  roundness  of  earlier  youth;  and  the 
hand  on  which  she  leaned  was  perhaps  even  too  white,  too 
delicate,  for  the  beauty  which  belongs  to  health;  but  the 
throat  and  bust  were  of  exquisite  symmetry. 

"I  am  not  happy,"  murmured  Eugenie  to  herself,  "yet  I 
scarce  know  why.  Is  it  really,  as  we  women  of  romance  have 
said  till  the  saying  is  worn  threadbare,  that  the  destiny  of 
women  is  not  fame,  but  love?  Strange,  then,  that  while  I 
have  so  often  pictured  what  love  should  be,  I  have  never  felt 
it.  And  now,  and  now,"  she  continued,  half  rising,  and  with 
a  natural  pang,  —  "now  I  am  no  longer  in  my  first  youth.  If 
I  loved,  should  I  be  loved  again?  How  happy  the  young  pair 
seemed,  —  they  are  never  alone !  " 

At  this  moment,  at  a  distance,  was  heard  the  report  of  fire- 
arms, —  again !  Eugenie  started,  and  called  to  her  servant, 
who,  with  one  of  the  waiters  hired  for  the  night,  was  engaged 
in  removing,  and  nibbling  as  he  removed,  the  remains  of  the 
feast.  "What  is  that,  at  this  hour?  Open  the  window  and 
lookout!" 

"I  can  see  nothing,  Madame." 

"  Again,  —  that  is  the  third  time.  Go  into  the  street  and 
look;  some  one  must  be  in  danger." 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  279 

The  servant  and  the  waiter,  both  curious,  and  not  willing  to 
part  company,  ran  down  the  stairs,  and  thence  into  the  street. 

Meanwliile  Morton,  after  vainly  attempting  Birnie's  win- 
dow, which  the  traitor  had  previously  locked  and  barred 
against  the  escape  of  his  intended  victim,  crept  rapidly 
along  the  roof,  screened  by  the  parapet  not  only  from  the 
shot,  but  the  sight  of  the  foe.  But  just  as  he  gained  the 
point  at  which  the  lane  made  an  angle  with  the  broad  street 
it  adjoined,  he  cast  his  eyes  over  the  parapet  and  perceived 
that  one  of  the  officers  had  ventured  himself  to  the  fearful 
bridge.  He  was  pursued, —  detection  and  capture  seemed  in- 
evitable. He  paused,  and  breathed  hard.  He,  once  the  heir 
to  such  fortunes,  the  darling  of  such  affections,  —  he  the 
hunted  accomplice  of  a  gang  of  miscreants!  That  was  the 
thought  that  paralyzed,  —  the  disgrace,  not  the  danger.  But 
he  was  in  advance  of  the  pursuer;  he  hastened  on,  he  turned 
the  angle,  he  heard  a  shout  behind  from  the  opposite  side,  — 
the  officer  had  passed  the  bridge.  "It  is  but  one  man  as  yet," 
thought  he,  and  his  nostrils  dilated  and  his  hands  clenched  as 
he  glided  on,  glancing  at  each  casement  as  he  passed. 

Now,  as  youth  and  vigour  thus  struggled  against  Law  for 
life,  near  at  hand  Death  was  busy  with  toil  and  disease. 

In  a  miserable  grabat,  or  garret,  a  mechanic,  yet  young, 
and  stricken  by  a  lingering  malady  contracted  by  the  labour 
of  his  occupation,  was  slowly  passing  from  that  world  which 
had  frowned  on  his  cradle,  and  relaxed  not  the  gloom  of  its 
aspect  to  comfort  his  bed  of  Death.  Now,  this  man  had  mar- 
ried for  love,  and  his  wife  had  loved  hira;  and  it  was  the 
cares  of  that  early  marriage  which  had  consumed  him  to  the 
bone.  But  extreme  want,  if  long  continued,  eats  up  love 
when  it  has  nothing  else  to  eat.  And  when  people  are  very 
long  dying,  the  people  they  fret  and  trouble  begin  to  think  of 
that  too  often  hypocritical  prettiness  of  phrase  called  "a 
happy  release."  So  the  worn-out  and  half-famished  wife  did 
not  care  three  straws  for  the  dying  husband  whom  a  year  or 
two  ago  she  had  vowed  to  love  and  cherish  in  sickness  and  in 
health.  But  still  she  seemed  to  care,  for  she  moaned  and 
pined  and  wept  as  the  man's  breath  grew  fainter  and  fainter. 


280  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"AL,  Jean!'  said  she,  sobbing,  "what  will  become  of  me, 
a  poor  lone  widow,  with  nobody  to  work  for  my  bread?  "  And 
with  that  thought  she  took  on  worse  than  before. 

"I  am  stifling,"  said  the  dying  man,  rolling  round  his 
ghastly  eyes.  "How  hot  it  is!  Open  the  window;  1  should 
like  to  see  the  light,  — daylight  once  again." 

"  Jib?i  Dleu,  what  whims  he  has,  poor  man!  "  muttered  the 
woman,  without  stirring. 

The  poor  wretch  put  out  his  skeleton  hand  and  clutched  his 
wife's  arm. 

"  I  sha'  n't  trouble  you  long,  Marie !     Air  —  air !  " 

"Jean,  you  will  make  yourself  worse, — besides,  I  shall 
catch  my  death  of  cold;  I  have  scarce  a  rag  on.  But  I  will 
just  open  the  door." 

"Pardon  me,"  groaned  the  sufferer;  "leave  me,  then." 

Poor  fellow !  perhaps  at  that  moment  the  thought  of  unkind- 
ness  was  sharper  than  the  sharp  cough  which  brought  blood 
at  every  paroxysm.  He  did  not  like  her  so  near  him,  but  he 
did  not  blame  her.     Again,  I  say,  poor  fellow !  " 

The  woman  opened  the  door,  went  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  and  sat  down  on  an  old  box  and  began  darning  an  old 
neck-handkerchief.  The  silence  was  soon  broken  by  the 
moans  of  the  fast-dying  man,  and  again  he  muttered,  as  he 
tossed  to  and  fro,  with  baked  white  lips,  — 

"t/e  m^etouffe  !  —  air !  " 

There  was  no  resisting  that  prayer,  it  seemed  so  like  the 
last.  The  wife  laid  down  the  needle,  put  the  handkerchief 
round  her  throat,  and  opened  the  window. 

"Do  you  feel  easier  now?" 

"Bless  you,  Marie,  yes!  That 's  good,  good.  It  puts  me  in 
mind  of  old  days,  that  breath  of  air,  before  we  came  to  Paris. 
I  wish  I  could  work  for  you  now,  Marie." 

"  Jean,  my  poor  Jean !  "  said  the  woman ;  and  the  words 
and  the  voice  took  back  her  hardening  heart  to  the  fresh  fields 
and  tender  thoughts  of  the  past  time.  And  she  walked  up  to 
the  bed,  and  he  leaned  his  temples,  damp  with  livid  dews, 
upon  her  breast. 

"  I  have  been  a  sad  burden  to  you,  Marie ;  we  should  not 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  281 

have  married  so  soon.  But  I  thought  I  was  stronger.  Don't 
cry;  we  have  no  little  ones,  thank  God.  It  will  be  much 
better  for  you  when  I  am  gone." 

And  so,  word  after  word  gasped  out,  he  stopped  suddenly, 
and  seemed  to  fall  asleep. 

The  wife  then  attempted  gently  to  lay  him  once  more  on  his 
pillow, — the  head  fell  back  heavily;  the  jaw  had  dro})ped; 
the  teeth  were  set;  the  eyes  were  open  and  like  the  stone. 
The  truth  broke  on  her! 

"Jean,  Jean!  My  God,  he  is  dead!  and  I  was  unkind  to 
him  at  the  last !  "  With  these  words  she  fell  upon  the  corpse, 
happily  herself  insensible. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  human  face  peered  in  at  the  window. 
Through  that  aperture,  after  a  moment's  pause,  a  young  man 
leaped  lightly  into  the  room.  He  looked  round  with  a  hur- 
ried glance,  but  scarcely  noticed  the  forms  stretched  on  the 
pallet.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  they  seemed  to  sleep,  and 
saw  him  not.  He  stole  across  the  room,  the  door  of  which 
Marie  had  left  open,  and  descended  the  stairs.  He  had 
almost  gained  the  courtyard  into  which  the  stairs  conducted, 
when  he  heard  voices  below  by  the  porter's  lodge. 

"The  police  have  discovered  a  gang  of  coiners." 

"Coiners?" 

"Yes,  one  has  been  shot  dead.  I  have  seen  his  body  in  the 
kennel ;  another  has  fled  along  the  roofs,  —  a  desperate  fellow ! 
We  were  to  watch  for  him.  Let  us  go  iipstairs  and  get  on  the 
roof  and  look  out." 

By  the  hum  of  approval  that  followed  this  proposition, 
Morton  judged  rightly  that  it  had  been  addressed  to  several 
persons  whom  curiosity  and  the  explosion  of  the  pistols  had 
drawn  from  their  beds,  and  who  were  grouped  round  the  por- 
ter's lodge.  What  was  to  be  done?  To  advance  was  impos- 
sible; was  there  yet  time  to  retreat?  It  was  at  least  the  only 
course  left  him.  He  sprang  back  up  the  stairs;  he  had  just 
gained  the  first  flight  when  he  heard  steps  descending.  Then 
suddenly  it  flashed  across  him  that  he  had  left  open  the  window 
above,  that,  doubtless,  by  that  imprudent  oversight  the  officer 
in  pursuit  had  detected  a  clew  to  the  path  he  had  taken. 


282  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Die  as  Gawtrey  had  done?  —  death 
rather  than  the  galleys !  As  he  thus  resolved,  he  saw  to  the 
right  the  open  door  of  an  apartment  in  which  lights  still 
glimmered  in  their  sockets ;  it  seemed  deserted.  He  entered 
boldly  and  at  once,  closing  the  door  after  him.  Wines  and 
viands  still  left  on  the  table;  gilded  mirrors,  reflecting  the 
stern  face  of  the  solitary  intruder;  here  and  there  an  artifi- 
cial flower ;  a  knot  of  ribbon  on  the  floor,  —  all  betokening 
the  gayeties  and  graces  of  luxurious  life,  the  dance,  the  revel, 
the  feast,  all  this  in  one  apartment!  Above,  in  the  same 
house,  the  pallet,  the  corpse,  the  widow,  —  famine  and  woe ! 
Such  is  a  great  city;  such,  above  all,  is  Paris,  where  under 
the  same  roof  are  gathered  such  antagonist  varieties  of  the 
social  state !  Nothing  strange  in  this ;  it  is  strange  and  sad 
that  so  little  do  people  thus  neighbours  know  of  each  other 
that  the  owner  of  those  rooms  had  a  heart  soft  to  every  dis- 
tress, but  she  did  not  know  the  distress  so  close  at  hand.  The 
music  that  had  charmed  her  guests  had  mounted  gayly  to  the 
vexed  ears  of  agony  and  hunger.  Morton  passed  the  first 
room  —  a  second;  he  came  to  a  third,  and  Eugenie  de  Mer- 
ville,  looking  up  at  that  instant,  saw  before  her  an  apparition 
that  might  well  have  alarmed  the  boldest.  His  head  was  un- 
covered, his  dark  hair  shadowed  in  wild  and  disorderly  profu- 
sion the  pale  face  and  features,  beautiful  indeed,  but  at  that 
moment  of  the  beauty  which  an  artist  would  impart  to  a  young 
gladiator,  —  stamped  with  defiance,  menace,  and  despair.  The 
disordered  garb,  the  fierce  aspect,  the  dark  eyes,  that  literally 
shone  through  the  shadows  of  the  room,  —  all  conspired  to 
increase  the  terror  of  so  abrupt  a  presence. 

"What  are  you?     What  do  you  seek  here?"  said  she,  fal- 
teringly,  placing  her  hand  on  the  bell  as  she  spoke. 

Upon  that  soft  hand  Morton  laid  his  own. 

"I  seek  my  life!      I  am  pursued!     I  am  at  your  mercy!     I 
am  innocent!     Can  you  save  me?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  of  the  outer  room  beyond  was  heard 
to  open,  and  steps  and  voices  were  at  hand. 

'*Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  as  he  recognized  her  face. 
And  is  it  to  i/ou  that  I  have  fled?  " 


r  ^•^^_}^'-''( 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  283 

Eugenie  also  recognized  the  stranger;  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  their  relative  positions  —  the  suppliant,  the  protect- 
ress—that excited  both  her  imagination  and  her  pity.  A 
slight  colour  mantled  to  her  cheeks ;  her  look  was  gentle  and 
compassionate. 

"Poor  boy,  so  young!  "  she  said.     "Hush!  " 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  retired  a  few  steps,  lifted 
a  curtain  drawn  across  a  recess,  and  pointing  to  an  alcove  that 
contained  one  of  those  sofa-beds  common  in  French  houses, 
added  in  a  whisper,  — 

"Enter,  — you  are  saved." 

Morton  obeyed,  and  Eugenie  replaced  the  curtain. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Guiomar.    Speak,  what  are  you "? 

Rutilio.    Gracious  woman,  hear  me.    I  am  a  stranger : 
And  in  that  I  answer  all  your  demands. 

Custom  of  the  Country. 

Eugenie  replaced  the  curtain.  And  scarcely  had  she  done 
so  ere  the  steps  in  the  outer  room  entered  the  chamber  where 
she  stood.  Her  servant  was  accompanied  by  two  officers  of 
the  police. 

"Pardon,  Madame,"  said  one  of  the  latter,  "but  we  are  in 
pursuit  of  a  criminal.  We  think  he  must  have  entered  this 
house  through  a  window  above  while  your  servant  was  in  the 
street.     Permit  us  to  search." 

"Without  doubt,"  answered  Eugenie,  seating  herself.  "If 
he  has  entered,  look  in  the  other  apartments.  I  have  not 
quitted  this  room. " 

"You  are  right.  Accept  our  apologies;"  and  the  officers 
turned  back  to  examine  every  corner  where  the  fugitive  was 
not.  Eor  in  that,  the  scouts  of  Justice  resembled  their  mis- 
tress: when  does  man's  justice  look  to  the  right  place? 


284  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

The  servant  lingered  to  repeat  the  tale  he  had  heard,  the 
sight  he  had  seen,  when  at  that  instant  he  saw  the  curtain  of 
the  alcove  slightly  stirred/  He  uttered  an  exclamation,  sprung 
to  the  bed,  his  hand  touched  the  curtain.  Eugenie  seized  his 
arm.  She  did  not  speak;  but  as  he  turned  his  eyes  to  her, 
astonished,  he  saw  that  she  trembled,  and  that  her  cheek 
Avas  as  white  as  marble. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  hesitating,  "there  is  some  one  hid  in 
the  recess." 

"There  is!     Be  silent!" 

A  suspicion  flashed  across  the  servant's  mind.  The  pure, 
the  proud,  the  immaculate  Eugenie ! 

"There  is!  and  in  Madame's  chamber!"  he  faltered  un- 
consciously. 

Eugenie's  quick  apprehensions  seized  the  foul  thought. 
Her  eyes  flashed,  her  cheek  crimsoned;  but  her  lofty  and 
generous  nature  conquered  even  the  indignant  and  scornful 
burst  that  rushed  to  her  lips.  The  truth!  —  could  she  trust 
the  man?  A  doubt,  and  the  charge  of  the  human  life  ren- 
dered to  her  might  be  betrayed.  Her  colour  fell,  tears  gushed 
to  her  eyes. 

"I  have  been  kind  to  you,  Francois.     Not  a  word!  " 

"  Madame  confides  in  me,  —  it  is  enough, "  said  the  French- 
man, bowing,  with  a  slight  smile  on  his  lips;  and  he  drew 
back  respectfully. 

One  of  the  police  officers  re-entered. 

"We  have  done,  Madame;  he  is  not  here.  Aha!  that 
curtain ! " 

"It  is  Madame's  bed,"  said  Fran9ois;  "but  I  have  looked 
behind." 

"  I  am  most  sorry  to  have  disarranged  you, "  said  the  police- 
man, satisfied  with  the  answer;  "but  we  shall  have  him  yet." 
And  he  retired. 

The  last  footsteps  died  away,  the  last  door  of  the  apartments 
closed  behind  the  officers,  and  Eugenie  and  her  servant  stood 
alone  gazing  on  each  other. 

"You  may  retire,"  said  she  at  last;  and  taking  her  purse 
from  the  table,  she  placed  it  in  his  hands. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  285 

The  man  took  it,  with  a  significant  look. 

"Madame  may  depend  on  my  discretion," 

Eugenie  was  alone  again.  Those  words  rang  in  her  ear. 
Eugenie  de  Merville  dependent  on  the  discretion  of  her  lackey! 
She  sunk  into  her  chair,  and,  her  excitement  succeeded  by  ex- 
haustion, leaned  her  face  on  her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 
She  was  aroused  by  a  low  voice;  she  looked  up,  and  the  young 
man  was  kneeling  at  her  feet. 

*'  Go !  go !  "  she  said ;  "  I  have  done  for  you  all  I  can.  You 
heard,  you  heard!  my  own  hireling,  too!  At  the  hazard  of 
my  own  good  name  you  are  saved.     Go !  " 

"Of  your  good  name!"  —  for  Eugenie  forgot  that  it  was 
looks,  not  words,  that  had  so  wrung  her  pride  —  "  your  good 
name!  "  he  repeated;  and  glancing  round  the  room  —  the  toi- 
lette, the  curtain,  the  recess  he  had  quitted,  —  all  that  bespoke 
that  chastest  sanctuary  of  a  chaste  woman,  which  for  a  stranger 
to  enter  is  as  it  were  to  profane  —  her  meaning  broke  on  him. 
"Your  good  name!  your  hireling!  No,  Madame, — no!" 
And  as  he  spoke,  he  rose  to  his  feet.  "Not  for  me  that 
sacrifice !  Your  humanity  shall  not  cost  you  so  dear.  Ho, 
there!  I  am  the  man  you  seek."     And  he  strode  to  the  door. 

Eugenie  was  penetrated  with  the  answer.  She  sprung  to 
him,  she  grasped  his  garments. 

"Hush!  hush!  for  mercy's  sake!  What  would  you  do? 
Think  you  I  could  ever  be  happy  again  if  the  confidence  you 
placed  in  me  were  betrayed?  Be  calm,  be  still.  I  knew  not 
what  I  said.  It  will  be  easy  to  undeceive  the  man  —  later  — 
when  you  are  saved.     And  you  are  innocent,  are  you  not?  " 

"Oh,  Madame,"  said  Morton,  "from  my  soul  I  say  it,  I  am 
innocent  —  not  of  poverty,  wretchedness,  error,  shame ;  I  am 
innocent  of  crime.     May  Heaven  bless  you!  " 

And  as  he  reverently  kissed  the  hand  laid  on  his  arm,  there 
was  something  in  his  voice  so  touching,  in  his  manner  some- 
thing so  above  his  fortunes,  that  Eugenie  was  lost  in  her  feel- 
ings of  compassion,  surprise,  and  something,  it  might  be,  of 
admiration  in  her  wonder. 

"  And,  oh ! "  he  said  passionately,  gazing  on  her  with  his 
dark,  brilliant  eyes,  liquid  with  emotion,  "you  have  made  my 


iiSb  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

life  sweet  in  saving  it,  —  you,  you,  — of  whom,  ever  since  the 
first  time,  almost  the  sole  time,  I  beheld  you,  I  have  so  often 
mused  and  dreamed.  Henceforth,  whatever  befall  me,  there 
will  be  some  recollections  that  will  —  that  —  " 

He  stopped  short,  for  his  heart  was  too  full  for  words ;  and 
the  silence  said  more  to  Eugenie  than  if  all  the  eloquence  of 
Kousseau  had  glowed  upon  his  tongue. 

"And  who  and  what  are  you?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"An  exile,  an  orphan,  an  outcast!  I  have  no  name! 
Farewell ! " 

"  No,  stay  yet,  —  the  danger  is  not  past.  Wait  till  my  ser- 
vant is  gone  to  rest;  I  hear  him  yet.  Sit  down,  sit  down. 
And  whither  would  you  go?" 

"I  know  not." 

"Have  you  no  friends?" 

"Xone." 

"No  home?" 

"Noiae." 

"  And  the  police  of  Paris  so  vigilant ! "  cried  Eugenie, 
wringing  her  hands.  "What  is  to  be  done?  I  shall  have 
saved  you  in  vain,  you  will  be  discovered !  Of  what  do  they 
charge  you?    Not  robbery,  not  —  " 

And  she,  too,  stopped  short,  for  she  did  not  dare  to  breathe 
the  black  word  —  "  Murder !  " 

"I  know  not,"  said  Morton,  putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
"  except  of  being  friends  with  the  only  man  who  befriended 
me,  —  and  they  have  killed  him !  " 

"Another  time  you  shall  tell  me  all." 

"Another  time!"  he  exclaimed  eagerly,  "shall  I  see  you 
again?  " 

Eugenie  blushed  beneath  the  gaze  and  the  voice  of  joy. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "yes;  but  I  must  reflect.  Be  calm,  be 
silent.     Ah!  a  happy  thought!" 

She  sat  down,  wrote  a  hasty  line,  sealed,  and  gave  it  to 
Morton. 

"  Take  this  note,  as  addressed,  to  Madame  Duf our ;  it  will 
provide  you  with  a  safe  lodging.  She  is  a  person  I  can  de- 
pend on,  —  an  old  servant  who  lived  with  my  mother,  and  to 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  287 

whom  I  liave  given  a  small  pension.  She  has  a  lodging,  it  is 
lately  vacant ;  I  promised  to  procure  her  a  tenant.  Go ;  say- 
nothing  of  what  has  passed.  I  will  see  her,  and  arrange  all. 
Wait!  Hark!  all  is  still!  I  will  go  first,  and  see  that  no  one 
watches  you.  Stop !  "  (and  she  threw  open  the  window,  and 
looked  into  the  court.)  "The  porter's  door  is  open,  — that  is 
fortunate !     Hurry  on,  and  God  be  with  you !  " 

In  a  few  minutes  Morton  was  in  the  streets.  It  was  still 
early,  the  thoroughfares  deserted,  none  of  the  shops  yet  open. 
The  address  on  the  note  was  to  a  street  at  some  distance,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Seine.  He  passed  along  the  same  Quai 
which  he  had  trodden  but  a  few  hours  since;  he  passed  the 
same  splendid  bridge  on  which  he  had  stood  despairing,  to 
quit  it  revived;  he  gained  the  Rue  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  A 
young  man  in  a  cabriolet,  on  whose  fair  cheek  burned  the 
hectic  of  late  vigils  and  lavish  dissipation,  was  rolling  leis- 
urely home  from  the  gaming-house,  at  which  he  had  been  more 
than  usually  fortunate,  —  his  pockets  were  laden  with  notes 
and  gold.  He  bent  forwards  as  Morton  passed  him.  Philip, 
absorbed  in  his  revery,  perceived  him  not,  and  continued  his 
way.  The  gentleman  turned  down  one  of  the  streets  to  the 
left,  stopped,  and  called  to  the  servant  dozing  behind  his 
cabriolet. 

"Follow  that  passenger, —  quietly;  see  where  he  lodges;  be 
sure  to  find  out  and  let  me  know.  I  shall  go  home  without 
you."     With  that  he  drove  on. 

Philip,  unconscious  of  the  espionage,  arrived  at  a  small 
house  in  a  quiet  but  respectable  street,  and  rang  the  bell 
several  times  before  at  last  he  was  admitted  by  Madame 
Dufour  herself,  in  her  nightcap.  The  old  woman  looked 
askant  and  alarmed  at  the  unexpected  apparition;  but  the 
note  seemed  at  once  to  satisfy  her.  She  conducted  him  to  an 
apartment  on  the  first  floor,  small,  but  neatly  and  even  ele- 
gantly furnished,  consisting  of  a  sitting-room  and  a  bed- 
chamber, and  said  quietly,  — 

"Will  they  suit  Monsieur?" 

To  Monsieur  they  seemed  a  palace.     Morton  nodded  assent. 

"And  will  Monsieur  sleep  for  a  short  time?" 


288  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

"Yes." 

"  The  bed  is  well  aired.  The  rooms  have  only  been  vacant 
three  days  since.  Can  I  get  you  anything  till  your  luggage 
arrives?" 

"No." 

The  woman  left  him.  He  threw  off  his  clothes,  flung  him- 
self on  the  bed,  and  did  not  wake  till  noon. 

When  his  eyes  unclosed,  when  they  rested  on  that  calm 
chamber,  with  its  air  of  health  and  cleanliness  and  comfort, 
it  was  long  before  he  could  convince  himself  that  he  was  yet 
awake.  He  missed  the  loud,  deep  voice  of  Gawtrey,  the 
smoke  of  the  dead  man's  meerschaum,  the  gloomy  garret, 
the  distained  walls,  the  stealthy  whisper  of  the  loathed 
Birnie;  slowly  the  life  led  and  the  life  gone  within  the  last 
twelve  hours  grew  upon  his  struggling  memory.  He  groaned 
and  turned  uneasily  round,  when  the  door  slightl}'  opened, 
and  he  sprung  up  fiercely,  — 

"Who  is  there?" 

"It  is  only  I,  sir,"  answered  Madame  Dufour.  "I  have 
been  in  three  times  to  see  if  you  were  stirring.  There  is  a 
letter  I  believe  for  you,  sir,  though  there  is  no  name  to  it," 
and  she  laid  the  letter  on  the  chair  beside  him.  Did  it  come 
from  her,  the  saving  angel?  He  seized  it.  The  cover  was 
blank;  it  was  sealed  with  a  small  device,  as  of  a  ring  seal. 
He  tore  it  open,  and  found  four  billets  de  hanque  for  1,000 
francs  each,  — a  sum  equivalent  in  our  money  to  about  £160. 

"  Who  sent  this,  the  —  the  lady  from  whom  I  brought  the 
note?" 

"Madame  de  Merville?  Certainly  not,  sir,"  said  Madame 
Dufour,  who,  with  J;he  privilege  of  age,  was  now  unscrupu- 
lously filling  the  water-jugs  and  settling  the  toilette-table. 
"  A  young  man  called  about  two  hours  after  you  had  gone  to 
bed;  and  describing  you,  inquired  if  you  lodged  here,  and 
what  your  name  was.  I  said  you  had  just  arrived,  and  that  I 
did  not  yet  know  your  name.  So  he  went  away,  and  came 
again  half-an-hour  afterwards  with  this  letter,  which  he 
charged  me  to  deliver  to  you  safely." 

"A  young  man,  — a  gentleman?" 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  289 

"No,  sir;  he  seemed  a  smart  but  common  sort  of  lad,"  — 
for  the  unsophisticated  Madame  Dufour  did  not  discover  in 
the  pLain  black  frock  and  drab  gaiters  of  the  bearer  of  that 
letter  the  simple  livery  of  an  English  gentleman's  groom. 

Whom  could  it  come  from,  if  not  from  Madame  de  Merville? 
Perhaps  one  of  Gawtrey's  late  friends.  A  suspicion  of  Arthur 
Beaufort  crossed  him,  but  he  indignantly  dismissed  it.  Men 
are  seldom  credulous  of  what  they  are  unwilling  to  believe! 
What  kindness  had  the  Beauforts  hitherto  shown  him?  —  left 
his  mother  to  perish  broken-hearted,  stolen  from  him  his 
brother,  and  steeled,  in  that  brother,  the  only  heart  wherein 
he  had  a  right  to  look  for  gratitude  and  love !  No,  it  must  be 
Madame  de  Merville.  He  dismissed  Madame  Dufour  for  pen 
and  paper,  rose,  wrote  a  letter  to  Eug<^nie  —  grateful,  but 
proud  —  and  inclosed  the  notes.  He  then  summoned  Madame 
Dufour,  and  sent  her  with  his  despatch. 

"Ah,  Madame,"  said  the  ci-devant  bonne,  when  she  found 
herself  in  Eugenie's  presence.  "The  poor  lad!  how  hand- 
some he  is,  and  how  shameful  in  the  Vicomte  to  let  him  wear 
such  clothes ! " 

"The  Vicomte!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  mistress,  you  must  not  deny  it.  You  told 
me  in  your  note  to  ask  him  no  questions,  but  I  guessed  at 
once.  The  Vicomte  told  me  himself  that  he  should  have  the 
young  gentleman  over  in  a  few  days.  You  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  him.  You  will  see  what  a  difference  clothes 
will  make  in  his  appearance;  and  I  have  taken  it  on  myself 
to  order  a  tailor  to  go  to  him.     The  Vicomte  miist  pay  me." 

"Not  a  word  to  the  Vicomte  as  yet.  We  will  surprise  him," 
said  Eugenie,  laughing. 

Madame  de  Merville  had  been  all  that  morning  trying  to 
invent  some  story  to  account  for  her  interest  in  the  lodger, 
and  now  how  Fortune  favoured  her! 

"But  is  that  a  letter  for  me?" 

"And  I  had  almost  forgot  it,"  said  Madame  Dufour,  as  she 
extended  the  letter. 

Whatever  there  had  hitherto  been  in  the  circumstances  con- 
nected with  Morton  that  had  roused  the  interest  and  excited 

19 


290  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

the  romance  of  Eugenie  de  Merville,  her  fancy  was  yet  more 
attracted  by  the  tone  of  the  letter  she  now  read.  For  though 
Morton,  more  accustomed  to  speak  than  to  write  French,  ex- 
pressed himself  with  less  precision  and  a  less  euphuistic  selec- 
tion of  phrase  than  the  authors  and  iWjans  who  formed  her 
usual  correspondents,  there  was  an  innate  and  rough  noble- 
ness, a  strong  and  profound  feeling,  in  every  line  of  his  letter, 
which  increased  her  surprise  and  admiration. 

"  All  that  surrounds  him,  all  that  belongs  to  him,  is  strange- 
ness and  mystery !  "  murmured  she ;  and  she  sat  down  to  reply. ' 

When  Madame  Dufour  departed  with  that  letter,  Eugenie 
remained  silent  and  thoughtful  for  more  than  an  hour,  Mor- 
ton's letter  before  her;  and  sweet  in  their  indistinctness  were 
the  recollections  and  the  images  that  crowded  on  her  mind. 

Morton,  satisfied  by  the  earnest  and  solemn  assurances  of 
Eugenie  that  she  was  not  the  unknown  donor  of  the  sum  she 
reinclosed,  after  puzzling  himself  in  vain  to  form  any  new 
conjectures  as  to  the  quarter  whence  it  came,  felt  that  under 
his  present  circumstances  it  would  be  an  absurd  Quixotism  to 
refuse  to  apply  what  the  very  Providence  to  whom  he  had 
anew  consigned  himself  seemed  to  have  sent  to  his  aid;  and  it 
placed  him,  too,  beyond  the  offer  of  all  pecuniary  assistance 
from  one  from  whom  he  could  least  have  brooked  to  receive  it. 
He  consented,  therefore,  to  all  that  the  loquacious  tailor  pro- 
posed to  him ;  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  recog- 
nized the  wild  and  frenzied  fugitive  in  the  stately  and  graceful 
form,  with  its  young  beauty  and  air  of  well-born  pride,  which 
the  next  day  sat  by  the  side  of  Eug(^nie.  And  that  day  he 
told  his  sad  and  troubled  story,  and  Eug(^nie  wept:  and  from 
that  day  he  came  daily ;  and  two  weeks  —  happy,  dreamlike, 
intoxicating  to  both  —  passed  by ;  and  as  their  last  sun  set,  he 
was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  and  breathing  to  one  to  whom  the 
homage  of  wit  and  genius  and  complacent  wealth  had  hitherto 
been  vainly  proffered  the  impetuous,  agitated,  delicious  secrets 
of  the  First  Love.  He  spoke  and  rose  to  depart  forever,  — 
when  the  look  and  sigh  detained  him. 

The  next  day,  after  a  sleepless  night,  Eugenie  de  Merville 
sent  for  the  Vicomte  de  Vaudemont. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  291 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A  SILVER  river  small 

In  sweet  accents 

Its  music  vents ; 

The  warbling  virginal 

To  which  the  merry  birds  do  sing, 

Timed  with  stops  of  gold  the  silver  string. 

Sir  Richard  Fanshawe. 

One  evening,  several  weeks  after  the  events  just  commem- 
orated, a  stranger,  leading  in  his  hand  a  young  child,  entered 

the  churchyard  of  H .     The  sun  had  not  long  set,  and  the 

short  twilight  of  deepening  summer  reigned  in  the  tranquil 
skies;  you  might  still  hear  from  the  trees  above  the  graves 
the  chirp  of  some  joyous  bird.  What  cared  he,  the  denizen 
of  the  skies,  for  the  dead  that  slept  below;  what  did  he  value 
save  the  greenness  and  repose  of  the  spot, — to  him  alike  the 
garden  or  the  grave!  As  the  man  and  the  child  passed,  the 
robin,  scarcely  scared  by  their  tread  from  the  long  grass  be- 
side one  of  the  mounds,  looked  at  them  with  its  bright,  blithe 
eye.  It  was  a  famous  plot  for  the  robin, —  the  old  church- 
yard! That  domestic  bird  —  "the  friend  of  man,"  as  it  has 
been  called  by  the  poets  —  found  a  jolly  supper  among  the 
worms ! 

The  stranger,  on  reaching  the  middle  of  the  sacred  ground, 
paused  and  looked  round  him  wistfully.  He  then  approached, 
slowly  and  hesitatingly,  an  oblong  tablet,  on  which  were 
graven,  in  letters  yet  fresh  and  new,  these  words :  — 

TO    THE 

MEMORY    OF    ONE    CALUMNIATED    AND   WRONGED 

THIS    BURIAL-STONE    IS    DEDICATED 

BY    HER    SON. 

Such,  with  the  addition  of  the  dates  of  birth  and  death, 
was  the  tablet  which  Philip  Morton  had  directed  to  be  placed 


292  NIGHT  AXD  MORXIXG. 

over  his  mother's  bones ;  and  around  it  was  set  a  simple  pal- 
isade, which  defended  it  from  the  tread  of  the  children,  who 
sometimes,  in  defiance  of  the  beadle,  played  over  the  dust  of 
the  former  race. 

"  Thj^  son ! "  muttered  the  stranger,  while  the  child  stood 
quietly  by  his  side,  pleased  by  the  trees,  the  grass,  the  song 
of  the  birds,  and  recking  not  of  grief  or  death, —  "thy  son! 
but  not  thy  favoured  son,  thy  darling,  thy  youngest  born ;  on 
what  spot  of  earth  do  thine  eyes  look  down  on  Mm  ?  Surely 
in  heaven  thy  love  has  preserved  the  one  whom  on  earth  thou 
didst  most  cherish  from  the  sufferings  and  the  trials  that 
have  visited  the  less-favoured  outcast.  Oh,  Mother,  Mother ! 
it  was  not  his  crime  —  not  Philip's  —  that  he  did  not  fulfil  to 
the  last  the  trust  bequeathed  to  him !  Happier,  perhaps,  as 
it  is!  And,  oh!  if  thy  memory  be  graven  as  deeply  in  my 
brother's  heart  as  my  own,  how  often  will  it  warn  and  save 
him!  That  memory !  —  it  has  been  to  me  the  angel  of  my  life ! 
To  thee,  to  thee,  even  in  death,  I  owe  it,  if  though  erring  I 
am  not  criminal;  if  I  have  lived  with  the  lepers,  and  am  still 
undefiled!  "     His  lips  then  were  silent,  not- his  heart! 

After  a  few  minutes  thus  consumed  he  turned  to  the  child, 
and  said,  gently  and  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Fanny,  you  have 
been  taught  to  pray,  you  will  live  near  this  spot;  will  you 
come  sometimes  here  and  pray  that  you  may  grow  up  good 
and  innocent,  and  become  a  blessing  to  those  who  love  you?" 

"Will  Papa  ever  come  to  hear  me  pray? " 

That  sad  and  unconscious  question  went  to  the  heart  of 
Morton.  The  child  could  not  comprehend  death.  He  had 
sought  to  explain  it,  but  she  had  been  accustomed  to  consider 
hsr  protector  dead  when  he  was  absent  from  her,  and  she  still 
insisted  that  he  must  come  again  to  life.  And  that  man  of 
turbulence  and  crime,  who  had  passed  unrepentant,  unab- 
solved, from  sin  to  judgment:  it  was  an  awful  question, — 
"If  he  should  hear  her  pray?" 

"Yes  !"  said  he,  after  a  pause, —  "yes,  Fanny,  there  is  a 
Father  who  will  hear  you  pray;  and  pray  to  Him  to  be  mer- 
ciful to  those  who  have  been  kind  to  you.  Fanny,  you  and  I 
may  never  meet  again !  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  293 

"Are  you  going  to  die  too?  Mechant,  every  one  dies  to 
Fanny !  "  and  clinging  to  him  endearingly,  she  put  up  her  lips 
to  kiss  hiin.  He  took  her  in  his  arms;  and  as  a  tear  fell 
upon  her  rosy  cheek,  she  said,  "Don't  cry,  brother,  for  I  love 
you." 

"Do  you,  dear  Fanny?  Then,  for  my  sake,  when  you 
come  to  this  place,  if  any  one  will  give  you  a  few  flowers, 
scatter  them  on  that  stone.  And  now  we  will  go  to  one 
whom  you  must  love  also,  and  to  whom,  as  I  have  told  you, 
he  sends  you, — he  who  —     Come !  " 

As  he  thus  spoke  and  placed  Fanny  again  on  the  ground, 
he  was  startled  to  see,  precisely  on  the  spot  where  he  had 
seen  before  the  like  apparition,  on  the  same  spot  where  the 
father  had  cursed  the  son,  the  motionless  form  of  an  old  man. 
Morton  recognized,  as  if  by  an  instinct  rather  than  by  an 
effort  of  the  memory,  the  person  to  whom  he  was  bound. 

He  walked  slowly  towards  him ;  but  Fanny  abruptly  left  his 
side,  lured  by  a  moth  that  flitted  duskily  over  the  graves. 

"Your  name,  sir,  I  think,  is  Simon  Gawtrey?"  said 
Morton.     "I  have  come  to  England  in  quest  of  you." 

"Of  me?"  said  the  old  man,  half  rising,  and  his  eyes,  now 
completely  blind,  rolled  vacantly  over  Morton's  person,—  "of 
me?     For  what?     Who  are  you?     I  don't  know  your  voice!  " 

"  I  come  to  you  from  your  son !  " 

"My  son!  "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with  great  vehemence, 
—  "  the  reprobate !  the  dishonoured !  the  infamous !  the  ac- 
cursed—  " 

"  Hush  I  you  revile  the  dead  I  " 

"Dead!"  muttered  the  wretched  father,  tottering  back  to 
the  seat  he  had  quitted, —  "dead!  "  and  the  sound  of  his  voice 
was  so  full  of  anguish  that  the  dog  at  his  feet,  which  Morton 
had  not  hitherto  perceived,  echoed  it  with  a  dismal  cry,  that 
recalled  to  Philip  the  awful  day  in  which  he  had  seen  the  son 
quit  the  father  for  the  last  time  on  earth. 

The  sound  brought  Fanny  to  the  spot;  and  with  a  laugh  of 
delight,  which  made  to  it  a  strange  contrast,  she  threw  her- 
self on  the  grass  beside  the  dog  and  sought  to  entice  it  to 
play.     So  there  in  that  place  of  death  were  knit  together  the 


294  NIGHT   AND  MORXIXG. 

four  links  in  the  Great  Chain, —  lusty  and  blooming  life,  des- 
olate and  doting  age,  infancy,  yet  scarce  conscious  of  a  soul, 
and  the  dumb  brute,  that  has  no  warrant  of  a  Hereafter ! 

"Dead!  dead!"  repeated  the  old  man,  covering  his  sight- 
less balls  with  his  withered  hands.     "Poor  "William!  " 

"He  remembered  you  to  the  last.  He  bade  me  seek  you 
out,  he  bade  me  replace  the  guilty  son  with  a  thing  pure  and 
innocent  as  he  had  been  had  he  died  in  his  cradle, —  a  child 
to  comfort  your  old  age !  Kneel,  Fanny,  I  have  found  you  a 
father  who  will  cherish  you  —  oh!  you  will,  sir,  will  you  not? 
— as  he  whom  you  may  see  no  more!  " 

There  was  something  in  Morton's  voice  so  solemn  that  it 
awed  and  touched  both  the  old  man  and  the  infant;  and 
Fanny,  creeping  to  the  protector  thus  assigned  to  her,  and 
putting  her  little  hands  confidingly  on  his  knees,  said, — 

"Fanny  will  love  you  if  Papa  wished  it.     Kiss  Fanny." 

"Is  it  his  child, — his?"  said  the  blind  man,  sobbing. 
"  Come  to  my  heart ;  here,  here !     0  God,  forgive  me !  " 

Morton  did  not  think  it  right  at  that  moment  to  undeceive 
him  with  regard  to  the  poor  child's  true  connection  with  the 
deceased;  and  he  waited  in  silence  till  Simon,  after  a  burst 
of  passionate  grief  and  tenderness,  rose,  and  still  clasping 
the  child  to  his  breast,   said, — 

"Sir,  forgive  me!  I  am  a  very  weak  old  man;  I  have 
many  thanks  to  give ;  I  have  much,  too,  to  learn.  My  poor 
son!    he  did  not  die  in  want, —  did  he?" 

The  particulars  of  Gawtrey's  fate,  with  his  real  name  and 
the  various  aliases  he  had  assumed,  had  appeared  in  the 
French  journals,  had  been  partially  copied  into  the  English, 
and  Morton  had  expected  to  have  been  saved  the  painful  nar- 
rative of  that  fearful  death;  but  the  utter  seclusion  of  the  old 
man,  his  infirmity,  and  his  estranged  habits  had  shut  him  out 
from  the  intelligence  that  it  now  devolved  on  Philip  to  com- 
municate.    Morton  hesitated  a  little  before  he  answered, — 

"It  is  late  now;  you  are  not  yet  prepared  to  receive  this 
poor  infant  at  your  home,  nor  to  hear  the  details  I  have  to 
state.  I  arrived  in  England  but  to-day.  I  shall  lodge  in  the 
neighbourhood,  for  it  is  dear  to  me.    If  I  may  feel  sure,  then. 


NIGHT  AXD  MORNING.  295 

that  you  will  receive  and  treasure  this  sacred  and  last  deposit 
bequeathed  to  you  by  your  unhappy  son,  I  will  bring  my 
charge  to  you  to-raorrow,  and  we  will  then,  more  calmly  than 
we  can  now,  talk  over  the  past," 

"You  do  not  answer  my  question,"  said  Simon,  passion- 
ately; "answer  that,  and  I  will  wait  for  the  rest.  They  call 
me  a  miser.  Did  I  send  out  my  only  child  to  starve?  Answer 
that!" 

"Be  comforted.  He  did  not  die  in  want;  and  he  has  even 
left  some  little  fortune  for  Fanny,  which  I  was  to  place  in 
your  hands." 

"And  he  thought  to  bribe  the  old  miser  to  be  human! 
Well,  well,  well!     I  Avill  go  home." 

"  Lean  on  me !  " 

The  dog  leaped  playfully  on  his  master  as  the  latter  rose, 
and  Fanny  slid  from  Simon's  arms  to  caress  and  talk  to  the 
animal  in  her  own  way.  As  they  slowly  passed  through  the 
churchyard  Simon  muttered  incoherently  to  himself  for  sev- 
eral paces,  and  Morton  would  not  disturb  since  he  could  not 
comfort  him. 

At  last  he  said  abruptly,  "Did  my  son  repent?" 

"I  hoped,"  answered  Morton,  evasively,  "that,  had  his  life 
been  spared,  he  would  have  amended ! " 

"Tush,  sir!  I  am  past  seventy;  we  repent!  we  never 
amend!"  And  Simon  again  sunk  into  his  own  dim  and 
disconnected  reveries. 

At  length  they  arrived  at  the  blind  man's  house.  The  door 
was  opened  to  them  by  an  old  woman  of  disagreeable  and 
sinister  aspect,  dressed  out  much  too  gayly  for  the  station  of 
a  servant,  though  such  was  her  reputed  capacity;  but  the 
miser's  affliction  saved  her  from  the  chance  of  his  comment 
on  her  extravagance.  As  she  stood  in  the  doorway  with  a 
candle  in  her  hand,  she  scanned  curiously,  and  with  no  wel- 
coming eye,  her  master's  companions. 

"Mrs.  Boxer,  my  son  is  dead!"  said  Simon,  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

"And  a  good  thing  it  is,  then,  sir!  " 

"For  shame,  woman!  "  said  Morton,  indignantly. 


296  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Hey-day!  sir!  whom  have  we  got  here?" 

"One,"  said  Simon,  sternly,  "whom  you  will  treat  with 
respect.  He  brings  me  a  blessing  to  lighten  my  loss.  One 
harsh  word  to  this  child,  and  you  quit  my  house ! " 

The  woman  looked  perfectly  thunderstruck;  but,  recover- 
ing herself,  she  said  whiningly, — 

"  I !  a  harsh  word  to  anything  my  dear,  kind  master  cares 
for!  And,  Lord,  what  a  sweet  pretty  creature  it  is!  Come 
here,  my  dear !  " 

But  Fanny  shrunk  back,  and  would  not  let  go  Philip's 
hand. 

"  To-morrow,  then,"  said  Morton;  and  he  was  turning  away, 
when  a  sudden  thought  seemed  to  cross  the  old  man, — 

"Stay,  sir,  stay!  I  —  I  —  did  my  son  say  I  was  rich?  I 
am  very,  very  poor, —  nothing  in  the  house,  or  I  should  have 
been  robbed  long  ago ! " 

"  Your  son  told  me  to  bring  money,  not  to  ask  for  it !  " 

"Ask  for  it!  No;  but,"  added  the  old  man,  and  a  gleam  of 
cunning  intellgence  shot  over  his  face, —  "but  he  had  got  into 
a  bad  set.     Ask!     No!    Put  up  the  door-chain,  Mrs.  Boxer!  " 

It  was  with  doubt  and  misgivings  that  Morton,  the  next 
day,  consigned  the  child,  who  had  already  nestled  herself 
into  the  warmest  core  of  his  heart,  to  the  care  of  Simon. 
Nothing  short  of  that  superstitious  respect  which  all  men 
owe  to  the  wishes  of  the  dead  would  have  made  him  select  for 
her  that  asylum;  for  Fate  had  now,  in  brightening  his  own 
prospects,  given  him  an  alternative  in  the  benevolence  of 
Madame  de  Merville.  But  Gawtrey  had  been  so  earnest  on 
the  subject  that  he  felt  as  if  he  had  no  right  to  hesitate ;  and 
was  it  not  a  sort  of  atonement  to  any  faults  the  son  might 
have  committed  against  the  parent  to  place  by  the  old  man's 
hearth  so  sweet  a  charge? 

The  strange  and  peculiar  mind  and  character  of  Fanny 
made  him,  however,  yet  more  anxious  than  otherwise  he 
might  have  been.  She  certainly  deserved  not  the  harsh  name 
of  imbecile  or  idiot,  but  she  was  different  from  all  other 
children;  she  felt  more  acutely  than  most  of  her  age,  but  she 
could  not  be  taught  to  reason.     There  was  something  either 


NIGHT  AXD  MORNING.  297 

oblique  or  deficient  in  her  intellect,  which  justified  the  most 
melancholy  apprehensions;  yet  often,  when  some  disordered, 
incoherent,  inexplicable  train  of  ideas  most  saddened  the 
listener,  it  would  be  followed  by  fancies  so  exquisite  in  their 
strangeness,  or  feelings  so  endearing  in  their  tenderness,  that 
suddenly  she  seemed  as  much  above  as  before  she  seemed  be- 
low the  ordinary  measure  of  infant  comprehension.  She  was 
like  a  creature  to  which  Nature,  in  some  cruel  but  bright  ca- 
price, has  given  all  that  belongs  to  poetry,  but  denied  all  that 
belongs  to  the  common  understanding  necessary  to  mankind; 
or  as  a  fairy  changeling,  not,  indeed,  according  to  the  vulgar 
superstition,  malignant  and  deformed,  but  lovelier  than  the 
children  of  men,  and  haunted  by  dim  and  struggling  associa- 
tions of  a  gentler  and  fairer  being,  yet  wholly  incapable  to 
learn  the  dry  and  hard  elements  which  make  up  the  knowl- 
edge of  actual  life. 

Morton,  as  well  as  he  could,  sought  to  explain  to  Simon  the 
peculiarities  in  Fanny's  mental  constitution.  He  urged  on 
him  the  necessity  of  providing  for  her  careful  instruction, 
and  Simon  promised  to  send  her  to  the  best  school  the  neigh- 
bourhood could  afford ;  but  as  the  old  man  spoke,  he  dwelt  so 
much  on  the  supposed  fact  that  Fanny  was  William's  daugh- 
ter, and  with  his  remorse  or  affection  there  ran  so  interwoven 
a  thread  of  selfishness  and  avarice,  that  Morton  thought  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  his  interest'  in  the  child  to  undeceive 
his  error.  He,  therefore, —  perhaps  excusably  enough, — 
remained  silent  on  that  subject. 

Gawtrey  had  placed  with  the  superior  of  the  convent,  to- 
gether with  an  order  to  give  up  the  child  to  any  one  who 
should  demand  her  in  his  true  name,  which  he  confided  to 
the  superior,  a  sum  of  nearly  £300,  which  he  solemnly  swore 
had  been  honestly  obtained,  and  which,  in  all  his  shifts  and 
adversities,  he  had  never  allowed  himself  to  touch.  This 
sum,  with  the  trifling  deduction  made  for  arrears  due  to  the 
convent,  Morton  now  placed  in  Simon's  hands.  The  old  man 
clutched  the  money,  which  was  for  the  most  in  French  gold, 
with  a  convulsive  gripe;  and  then,  as  if  ashamed  of  the 
impulse,  said, — 


298  XIGHT   AND  MORXIXG. 

*'But  you,  sir, — will  any  sum  —  that  is,  any  reasonable 
sum  —  be  of  use  to  you?" 

"No!  and  if  it  were,  it  is  neither  yours  nor  mine, —  it  is 
hers.     Save  it  for  her,  and  add  to  it  what  you  can." 

While  this  conversation  took  place,  Fanny  had  been  con- 
signed to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Boxer,  and  Philip  now  rose  to  see 
and  bid  her  farewell  before  he  departed. 

"I  may  come  again  to  visit  you,  Mr.  Gawtrey;  and  I  pray 
Heaven  to  find  that  you  and  Fanny  have  been  a  mutual  bless- 
ing to  each  other.     Oh,  remember  how  your  son  loved  her !  " 

"He  had  a  good  heart  in  spite  of  all  his  sins.  Poor 
William!"    said  Simon. 

Philip  jVIorton  heard,  and  his  lip  curled  with  a  sad  and  a 
just  disdain. 

If  when,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  William  Gawtrey  had 
quitted  his  father's  roof,  the  father  had  then  remembered 
that  the  son's  heart  was  good,  the  son  had  been  alive  still, 
an  honest  and  a  happy  man.  Do  ye  not  laugh,  0  ye  all-lis- 
tening Fiends!  when  men  praise  those  dead  whose  virtues 
they  discovered  not  when  alive?  It  takes  much  marble  to 
build  the  sepulchre, — how  little  of  lath  and  plaster  would 
have  repaired  the  garret! 

On  turning  into  a  small  room  adjoining  the  parlour  in  which 
Gawtrey  sat,  Morton  found  Fanny  standing  gloomily  by  a 
dull,  soot-grimed  window,  which  looked  out  on  the  dead  walls 
of  a  small  yard.  Mrs.  Boxer,  seated  by  a  table,  was  employed 
in  trimming  a  cap,  and  putting  questions  to  Fanny  in  that 
falsetto  voice  of  endearment  in  which  people  not  used  to 
children  are  apt  to  address  them. 

"And  so,  my  dear,  they've  never  taught  you  to  read  or 
write?    You've  been  sadly  neglected,   poor  thing!" 

"We  must  do  our  best  to  supply  the  deficiency,"  said 
Morton,  as  he  entered. 

"Bless  me,  sir,  is  that  you?"  and  the  gouvernante  bustled 
up  and  dropped  a  low  courtesy;  for  Morton,  dressed  then  in 
the  garb  of  a  gentleman,  was$  of  a  mien  and  person  calculated 
to  strike  the  gaze  of  the  vulgar. 

"  Ah,   brother !  "    cried  Fanny,   for  by  that  name   he  had 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  299 

taught  her  to  call  him,  and  she  flew  to  his  side,  "come  away. 
It 's  ugly  there;  it  makes  me  cold." 

"My  child,  I  told  you  you  must  stay;  but  I  shall  hope  to 
see  you  again  some  day.  Will  you  not  be  kind  to  this  poor 
creature,  ma'am?  Forgive  me  if  I  offended  you  last  night, 
and  favour  me  by  accepting  this,  to  show  that  we  are  friends." 
As  he  spoke,  he  slid  his  purse  into  the  woman's  hand.  "I 
shall  feel  ever  grateful  for  whatever  you  can  do  for  Fanny." 

"  Fanny  wants  nothing  from  any  one  else ;  Fanny  wants  her 
brother." 

"  Sweet  child !  I  fear  she  don't  take  to  me.  Will  you  like 
me,   Miss  Fanny?" 

"  No !  get  along !  " 

"Fie,  Fanny!  you  remember  you  did  not  take  to  me  at 
first.  But  she  is  so  affectionate,  ma'am;  she  never  forgets  a 
kindness." 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  please  her,  sir.  And  so  she  is  really 
master's  grandchild?"  The  woman  fixed  her  eyes,  as  she 
spoke,  so  intently  on  Morton  that  he  felt  embarrassed,  and 
busied  himself,  without  answering,  in  caressing  and  soothing 
Fanny,  who  now  seemed  to  awake  to  the  affliction  about  to 
visit  her;  for  though  she  did  not  weep  —  she  very  rarely 
wept  —  her  slight  frame  trembled,  her  eyes  closed,  her  cheeks, 
even  her  lips,  were  white,  and  her  delicate  hands  were  clasped 
tightly  round  the  neck  of  the  one  about  to  abandon  her  to 
strange  breasts. 

Morton  was  greatly  moved.  "One  kiss,  Fanny!  and  do 
not  forget  me  when  we  meet  again." 

The  child  pressed  her  lips  to  his  cheek,  but  the  lips 
were  cold.  He  put  her  down  gently;  she  stood  mute  and 
passive. 

"Remember  that  he  wished  me  to  leave  you  here,"  whis- 
pered Morton,  using  an  argument  that  never  failed.  "We 
must  obey  him ;  and  so  —  God  bless  you,  Fanny !  " 

He  rose  and  retreated  to  the  door;  the  child  unclosed  her 
eyes,  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  strained,  painful,  imploring 
gaze;  her  lips  moved,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Morton  could 
not  bear  that  silent  woe.     He  sought  to  smile  on  her  consol- 


300  XIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

ingly,  but  the  smile  would  not  come.     He  closed  the  door, 
and  hurried  from  the  house. 

From  that  day  Fanny  settled  into  a  kind  of  dreary,  inani- 
mate stupor,  which  resembled  that  of  the  sonnambulist  whom 
the  magnetizer  forgets  to  waken.  Hitherto,  with  all  the 
eccentricities  or  deficiencies  of  her  mind,  had  mingled  a  wild 
and  airy  gayety.  That  was  vanished.  She  spoke  little,  she 
never  played;  no  toys  could  lure  her ;  even  the  poor  dog  failed 
to  win  her  notice.  If  she  was  told  to  do  anything  she  stared 
vacantly  and  stirred  not.  She  evinced,  however,  a  kind  of 
dumb  regard  to  the  old  blind  man;  she  would  creep  to  his 
knees  and  sit  there  for  hours,  seldom  answering  when  he  ad- 
dressed her,  but  uneasy,  anxious,  and  restless,  if  he  left  her. 

"Will  you  die  too?"  she  asked  once;  the  old  man  under- 
stood her  not,  and  she  did  not  try  to  explain.  Early  one 
morning,  some  days  after  Morton  was  gone,  they  missed  her; 
she  was  not  in  the  house  nor  the  dull  yard  where  she  was 
sometimes  dismissed  and  told  to  play, —  told  in  vain.  In 
great  alarm  the  old  man  accused  Mrs.  Boxer  of  having  spir- 
ited her  away,  and  threatened  and  stormed  so  loudly  that  the 
woman,  against  her  will,  went  forth  to  the  search.  At  last 
she  found  the  child  in  the  churchyard,  standing  wistfully 
beside  a  tomb. 

"What  do  you  here,  you  little  plague?"  said  Mrs.  Boxer, 
rudely  seizing  her  by  the  arm. 

"This  is  the  way  they  will  both  come  back  some  day!  I 
dreamed  so !  " 

"If  ever  I  catch  you  here  again!"  said  the  housekeeper, 
and  wiping  her  brow  with  one  hand,  she  struck  the  child  with 
the  other.  Fanny  had  never  been  struck  before.  She  re- 
coiled in  terror  and  amazement,  and,  for  the  first  time  since 
her  arrival,  burst  into  tears. 

"Come,  come,  no  crying!  and  if  you  tell  master  I'll  beat 
you  within  an  inch  of  your  life!"  So  saying  she  caught 
Fanny  in  her  arms,  and  walking  about,  scolding  and  menac- 
ing, till  she  had  frightened  back  the  child's  tears,  she  re- 
turned triumphantly  to  the  house,  and  bursting  into  the 
parlour,  exclaimed,  "Here  's  the  little  darling,  sir!  " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  301 

When  old  Simon  learned  where  the  child  had  been  found 
he  Avas  glad;  for  it  was  his  constant  habit,  whenever  the 
evening  was  fine,  to  glide  out  to  that  churchyard  —  his  dog 
his  guide  —  and  sit  on  his  one  favourite  spot  opposite  the  set- 
ting sun.  This,  not  so  much  for  the  sanctity  of  the  place  or 
the  meditations  it  might  inspire,  as  because  it  was  the  near- 
est, the  safest,  and  the  loneliest  spot  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
his  home,  where  the  blind  man  could  inhale  the  air  and  bask 
in  the  light  of  heaven.  Hitherto,  thinking  it  sad  for  the 
child,  he  had  never  taken  her  with  him;  indeed,  at  the  hour 
of  his  monotonous  excursion  she  had  generally  been  banished 
to  bed.  Now  she  was  permitted  to  accompany  him;  and  the 
old  man  and  the  infant  would  sit  there  side  by  side,  as  Age 
and  Infancy  rested  side  by  side  in  the  graves  below.  The 
first  symptom  of  childlike  interest  and  curiosity  that  Fanny 
betrayed  was  awakened  by  the  affliction  of  her  protector. 
One  evening,  as  they  thus  sat,  she  made  him  explain  what 
the  desolation  of  blindness  is.  She  seemed  to  comprehend 
him,  though  he  did  not  seek  to  adapt  his  complaints  to  her 
understanding. 

"Fanny  knows,"  said  she,  touchingly;  "for  she,  too,  is 
blind  here;  "  and  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  temples. 

Notwithstanding  her  silence  and  strange  ways,  and  al- 
though he  could  not  see  the  exquisite  loveliness  which  Na- 
ture, as  in  remorseful  pity,  had  lavished  on  her  outward 
form,  Simon  soon  learned  to  love  her  better  than  he  had  ever 
loved  yet, —  for  they  most  cold  to  the  child  are  often  dotards 
to  the  grandchild.  For  her  even  his  avarice  slept.  Dainties 
never  before  known  at  his  sparing  board  were  ordered  to 
tempt  her  appetite,  toy-shops  ransacked  to  amuse  her  indo- 
lence. He  was  long,  however,  before  he  could  prevail  on 
himself  to  fulfil  his  promise  to  Morton,  and  rob  himself  of 
her  presence.  At  length,  however,  wearied  with  Mrs.  Boxer's 
lamentations  at  her  ignorance,  and  alarmed  himself  at  some 
evidences  of  helplessness,  which  made  him  dread  to  think 
what  her  future  might  be  when  left  alone  in  life,  he  placed 
her  at  a  day-school  in  the  suburb.  Here  Fanny,  for  a  con- 
siderable time,  justified  the  harshest  assertions  of  her  stupid- 


302  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

ity.  She  could  not  even  keep  her  eyes  two  minutes  together 
on  the  page  from  which  she  was  to  learn  the  mysteries  of 
reading;  months  passed  before  she  mastered  the  alphabet, 
and,  a  month  after,  she  had  again  forgot  it,  and  the  labour 
was  renewed.  The  only  thing  in  which  she  showed  ability, 
if  so  it  might  be  called,  was  in  the  use  of  the  needle.  The 
sisters  of  the  convent  had  already  taught  her  many  pretty  de- 
vices in  this  art;  and  when  she  found  that  at  the  school  they 
were  admired,  that  she  was  praised  instead  of  blamed,  her 
vanity  was  pleased,  and  she  learned  so  readily  all  that  they 
could  teach  in  this  not  unprofitable  accomplishment  that  Mrs. 
Boxer  slyly  and  secretly  turned  her  tasks  to  account,  and 
made  a  weekly  perquisite  of  the  poor  pupil's  industry.  An- 
other faculty  she  possessed,  in  common  with  persons  usually 
deficient,  and  with  the  lower  species, — namely,  a  most  ac- 
curate and  faithful  recollection  of  places.  At  first  Mrs. 
Boxer  had  been  duly  sent  morning,  noon,  and  evening  to 
take  her  to  or  bring  her  from  the  school;  but  this  was  so 
great  a  grievance  to  Simon's  solitary  superintendent,  and 
Fanny  coaxed  the  old  man  so  endearingly  to  allow  her  to  go 
and  return  alone,  that  the  attendance,  unwelcome  to  both, 
was  waived.  Fanny  exulted  in  this  liberty;  and  she  never, 
in  going  or  in  returning,  missed  passing  through  the  burial- 
ground,  and  gazing  wistfully  at  the  tomb  from  which  she  yet 
believed  Morton  would  one  day  reappear.  With  his  memory 
she  cherished  also  that  of  her  earlier  and  more  guilty  pro- 
tector; but  they  were  separate  feelings,  which  she  distin- 
guished in  her  own  way. 

"Papa  had  given  her  up.  She  knew  that  he  would  not 
have  sent  her  away,  far  over  the  great  water,  if  he  had 
meant  to  see  Fanny  again;  but  her  brother  was  forced  to 
leave  her, — he  would  come  to  life  one  day,  and  then  they 
should  live  together !  " 

One  day,  towards  the  end  of  autumn,  as  her  schoolmistress, 
a  good  woman  on  the  whole,  but  who  had  not  yet  had  the  wit 
to  discover  by  Avhat  chords  to  tune  the  instrument  over  which 
so  wearily  she  drew  her  unskilful  hand, —  one  day,  we  say, 
the  schoolmistress  happened  to  be  dressed  for  a  christening 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  303 

party  to  which  she  was  invited  in  the  suburb;  and,  accord- 
ingly, after  the  morning  lessons,  the  pupils  were  to  be  dis- 
missed to  a  holiday.  As  Fanny  now  came  last,  with  the 
hopeless  spelling-book,  she  stopped  suddenly  short,  and  her 
eyes  rested  with  avidity  upon  a  large  bouquet  of  exotic  flow- 
ers, with  which  the  good  lady  had  enlivened  the  centre  of 
the  parted  kerchief,  whose  yellow  gauze  modestly  veiled 
that  tender  section  of  female  beauty  which  poets  have  lik- 
ened to  hills  of  snow, — a  chilling  simile!  It  was  then  au- 
tumn; and  field  and  even  garden  flowers  were  growing  rare. 

"Will  you  give  me  one  of  those  flowers?"  said  Fanny, 
dropping  her  book. 

"One  of  these  flowers,  child!  why?" 

Fanny  did  not  answer;  but  one  of  the  elder  and  cleverei 
girls  said, — 

"Oh,  she  comes  from  France,  you  know,  ma'am,  and  the 
Eoman  Catholics  put  flowers  and  ribbons  and  things  over 
the  graves ;  you  recollect,  ma'am,  we  were  reading  yesterday 
about  Pere-la-Chaise?" 

"Well!  what  then?" 

"And  Miss  Fanny  will  do  any  kind  of  work  for  us  if  we 
will  give  her  flowers." 

"My  brother  told  me  where  to  put  them;  but  these  pretty 
flowers,  I  never  had  any  like  them;  they  may  bring  him  back 
again!     I  '11  be  so  good  if  you  '11  give  me  one,  —  only  one!  " 

"Will  you  learn  your  lesson  if  I  do,  Fanny?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !     Wait  a  moment !  " 

And  Fanny  stole  back  to  her  desk,  put  the  hateful  book 
resolutely  before  her,  pressed  both  hands  tightly  on  her 
temples,  —  Eureka!  the  chord  was  touched;  and  Fanny 
marched  in  triumph  through  half  a  column  of  hostile  double 
syllables ! 

From  that  day  the  schoolmistress  knew  how  to  stimulate 
her,  and  Fanny  learned  to  read, — her  path  to  knowledge 
thus  literally  strewn  with  flowers!  Catherine,  thy  children 
were  far  off,   and  thy  grave  looked  gay! 

It  naturally  happened  that  those  short  and  simple  rhymes, 
often  sacred,  which  are  repeated  in  schools  as  helps  to  mem- 


304  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

ory,  made  a  part  of  her  studies ;  and  no  sooner  had  the  sound 
of  verse  struck  upon  her  fancy  than  it  seemed  to  confuse  and 
agitate  anew  all  her  senses.  It  was  like  the  music  of  some 
breeze,  to  which  dance  and  tremble  all  the  young  leaves  of  a 
wild  plant.  Even  when  at  the  convent  she  had  been  fond  of 
repeating  the  infant  rhymes  with  which  they  had  sought  to 
lull  or  to  amuse  her,  but  now  the  taste  was  more  strongly 
developed.  She  confounded,  however,  in  meaningless  and 
motley  disorder  the  various  snatches  of  song  that  came  to  her 
ear,  weaving  them  together  in  some  form  which  she  under- 
stood, but  which  was  jargon  to  all  others ;  and  often,  as  she 
went  alone  through  the  green  lanes  or  the  bustling  streets, 
the  passenger  would  turn  in  pity  and  fear  to  hear  her  half 
chant,  half  murmur,  ditties  that  seemed  to  suit  only  a  wan- 
dering and  unsettled  imagination.  And  as  Mrs.  Boxer,  in 
her  visits  to  the  various  shops  in  the  suburb,  took  care  to 
bemoan  her  hard  fate  in  attending  to  a  creature  so  evidently 
moon-stricken,  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  manner  and  habits 
of  the  child,  coupled  with  that  strange  predilection  to  haunt 
the  burial-ground,  which  is  not  uncommon  with  persons  of 
weak  and  disordered  intellect,  confirmed  the  character  thus 
given  to  her. 

So,  as  she  tripped  gayly  and  lightly  along  the  thorough- 
fares, the  children  would  draw  aside  from  her  path,  and 
whisper  with  superstitious  fear  mingled  with  contempt,  "It's 
the  idiot  girl!  "  Idiot!  how  much  more  of  heaven's  light  was 
there  in  that  cloud  than  in  the  rushlights  that,  flickering  in 
sordid  chambers,  shed  on  dull  things  the  dull  ray,  esteeming 
themselves  as  stars! 

Months,  years  passed.  Fanny  was  thirteen,  when  there 
dawned  a  new  era  to  her  existence.  Mrs.  Boxer  had  never 
got  over  her  first  grudge  to  Fanny.  Her  treatment  of  the 
poor  girl  was  always  harsh,  and  sometimes  cruel ;  but  Fanny 
did  not  complain,  and  as  Mrs.  Boxer's  manner  to  her  before 
Simon  was  invariably  cringing  and  caressing,  the  old  man 
never  guessed  the  hardships  his  supposed  grandchild  under- 
went. There  had  been  scandal  some  years  back  in  the  suburb 
about  the  relative  connection  of  the  master  and  the  house- 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  305 

keeper;  and  tlie  flaunting  dress  of  the  latter,  something  bold 
in  her  regard,  and  certain  whispers  that  her  youth  had  not 
been  vowed  to  Vesta,  confirmed  the  suspicion.  The  only  rea- 
son why  we  do  not  feel  sure  that  the  rumour  was  false  is  this, 
—  Simon  Gawtrey  had  been  so  hard  on  the  early  follies  of  his 
son!  Certainly,  at  all  events,  the  woman  had  exercised  great 
influence  over  the  miser  before  the  arrival  of  Fanny,  and  she 
had  done  much  to  steel  his  selfishness  against  the  ill-fated 
William;  and,  as  certainly,  she  had  fully  calculated  on  suc- 
ceeding to  the  savings,  whatever  they  might  be,  of  the  miser, 
whenever  Providence  should  be  pleased  to  terminate  his 
days.  She  knew  that  Simon  had,  many  years  back,  made  his 
will  in  her  favour;  she  knew  that  he  had  not  altered  that 
will;  she  believed,  therefore,  that  in  spite  of  all  his  love  for 
Fanny,  he  loved  his  gold  so  much  more  that  he  could  not  ac- 
custom himself  to  the  thought  of  bequeathing  it  to  hands  too 
helpless  to  guard  the  treasure.  This  had  in  some  measure 
reconciled  the  housekeeper  to  the  intruder, —  whom  neverthe- 
less, she  hated  as  a  dog  hates  another  dog,  not  only  for  taking 
his  bone  but  for  looking  at  it. 

But  suddenly  Simon  fell  ill.  His  age  made  it  probable  he 
would  die.  He  took  to  his  bed;  his  breathing  grew  fainter 
and  fainter;  he  seemed  dead.  Fanny,  all  unconscious,  sat 
by  his  bedside  as  usual,  holding  her  breath  not  to  waken  him. 
Mrs.  Boxer  flew  to  the  bureau;  she  unlocked  it.  She  could 
not  find  the  will;  but  she  found  three  bags  of  bright  old 
guineas.  The  sight  charmed  her.  She  tumbled  them  forth 
on  the  distained  green  cloth  of  the  bureau,  she  began  to  count 
them;  and  at  that  moment,  the  old  man,  as  if  there  were  a 
secret  magnetism  between  himself  and  the  guineas,  woke  from 
his  trance.  His  blindness  saved  him  the  pain,  that  might 
have  been  fatal,  of  seeing  the  unhallowed  profanation;  but 
he  heard  the  chink  of  the  metal.  The  very  sound  restored 
his  strength.  But  the  infirm  are  always  cunning,  —  he 
breathed  not  a  suspicion.  "Mrs.  Boxer,"  said  he,  faintly, 
"I  think  I  could  take  some  broth."  Mrs.  Boxer  rose  in  great 
dismay,  gently  re-closed  the  bureau,  and  ran  downstairs  for 
the  broth.  Simon  took  the  occasion  to  question  Fanny;  and 
20 


306  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

no  sooner  had  he  learned  the  operation  of  the  heir-expectant 
than  he  bade  the  girl  first  lock  the  bureau  and  bring  him  the 
key,  and  next  run  to  a  lawyer  (whose  address  he  gave  her), 
and  fetch  him  instantly. 

With  a  malignant  smile  the  old  man  took  the  broth  from 
his  handmaid.  "Poor  Boxer,  you  are  a  disinterested  creat- 
ure," said  he,  feebly;  "I  think  you  will  grieve  when  I  go." 

Mrs.  Boxer  sobbed,  and  before  she  had  recovered,  the  law- 
yer entered.  That  day  a  new  will  was  made ;  and  the  lawyer 
politely  informed  Mrs.  Boxer  that  her  services  would  be  dis- 
pensed with  the  next  morning,  when  he  should  bring  a  nurse 
to  the  house.  Mrs.  Boxer  heard,  and  took  her  resolution. 
As  soon  as  Simon  again  fell  asleep,  she  crept  into  the  room, 
led  away  Fanny,  locked  her  up  in  her  own  chamber,  returned, 
searched  for  the  key  of  the  bureau,  which  she  found  at  last 
under  Simon's  pillow,  possessed  herself  of  all  she  could  lay 
her  hands  on,  and  the  next  morning  she  had  disappeared  for- 
ever! Simon's  loss  was  greater  than  might  have  been  sup- 
posed; for,  except  a  trifling  sum  in  the  savings  bank,  he, 
like  many  other  misers,  kept  all  he  had  in  notes  or  specie 
under  his  own  lock  and  key.  His  whole  fortune,  indeed, 
was  far  less  than  was  supposed;  for  money  does  not  make 
money  unless  it  is  put  out  to  interest, —  and  the  miser  cheated 
himself.  Such  portion  as  was  in  bank-notes  Mrs.  Boxer 
probably  had  the  prudence  to  destroy,  for  those  numbers 
which  Simon  could  remember  were  never  traced;  the  gold, 
who  could  swear  to?  Except  the  pittance  in  the  savings 
bank,  and  whatever  might  be  the  paltry  worth  of  the  house 
he  rented,  the  father  who  had  enriched  the  menial  to  exile 
the  son  was  a  beggar  in  his  dotage.  This  news,  however, 
was  carefully  concealed  from  him  by  the  advice  of  the  doctor, 
whom,  on  his  own  responsibility,  the  lawyer  introduced,  till 
he  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  bear  the  shock  without 
danger  ;  and  the  delay  naturally  favoured  Mrs.  Boxer's 
escape. 

Simon  remained  for  some  moments  perfectly  stunned  and 
speechless  when  the  news  was  broken  to  him.  Fanny,  in 
alarm  at  his  increasing  paleness,  sprang  to  his  breast.     He 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  307 

pushed  her  away.  "Go,  go,  go,  child,"  he  said;  "I  can't 
feed  you  now.     Leave  me  to  starve." 

"To  starve!"  said  Fanny,  wonderingly;  and  she  stole 
away,  and  sat  herself  down  as  if  in  deep  thought.  She  then 
crept  up  to  the  lawyer  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room, 
after  exhausting  his  stock  of  commonplace  consolation ;  and 
putting  her  hand  in  his,  whispered,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
—  this  way."  She  led  him  through  the  passage  into  the  open 
air.  "Tell  me,"  she  said,  "when  poor  people  try  not  to 
starve,   don't  they  work?" 

"My  dear,  yes." 

"For  rich  people  buy  poor  people's  work?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear;  to  be  sure." 

"Very  well.  Mrs.  Boxer  used  to  sell  my  work.  Fanny 
will  feed  Grandpapa!  Go  and  tell  him  never  to  say  'starve  ' 
again. " 

The  good-natured  lawyer  was  moved.  "  Can  you  work,  in- 
deed, my  poor  girl?  Well,  put  on  your  bonnet,  and  come 
and  talk  to  my  wife." 

And  that  was  the  new  era  in  Fanny's  existence!  Her 
schooling  was  stopped ;  but  now  life  schooled  her.  Necessity 
ripened  her  intellect.  And  many  a  hard  eye  moistened,  as, 
seeing  her  glide  with  her  little  basket  of  fancy-work  along 
the  streets,  still  murmuring  her  happy  and  birdlike  snatches 
of  unconnected  song,  men  and  children  alike  said  with  re- 
spect, in  which  there  was  note  no  contempt,  "It's  the  idiot 
girl  who  supports  her  blind  grandfather!" 

They  called  her  idiot  still ! 


BOOK    IV. 


§in  ju  einem  grofeen  Wmt 
'kxiib  m\6)  jeiner  !ii3cllen  ©piel; 
5Gor  mir  Iiegt'§  in  tBeiter  iiecre, 
9Jdf)er  bin  ic^  ni^t  bem  Qicl. 

Schiller  :  Der  Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER  I. 

0  THAT  sweet  gleam  of  sunshine  on  the  lake ! 

Wilson  :   Citi/  of  the  Plague. 

If,  reader,  you  have  ever  looked  through  a  solar  microscope 
at  the  monsters  in  a  drop  of  water,  perhaps  you  have  wondered 
to  yourself  how  things  so  terrible  have  been  hitherto  unknown 
to  you,  you  have  felt  a  loathing  at  the  limpid  element  you 
hitherto  deemed  so  pure,  you  have  half  fancied  that  you 
would  cease  to  be  a  water-drinker ;  yet  the  next  day  you  have 
forgotten  the  grim  life  that  started  before  you,  with  its  count- 
less shapes,  in  that  teeming  globule,  and  if  so  tempted  by 
your  thirst,  you  have  not  shrunk  from  the  lying  crystal, 
although  myriads  of  the  horrible  Unseen  are  mangling,  de- 
vouring, gorging  each  other  in  the  liquid  you  so  tranquilly 
imbibe.  So  is  it  with  that  ancestral  and  master  element 
called  Life.  Lapped  in  your  sleek  comforts,  and  lolling  on 
the  sofa  of  your  patent  conscience,  when,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time,  you  look  through  the  glass  of  science  upon  one  ghastly 
globule  in  the  waters  that  heave  around,  that  fill  up  with 
their  succulence  the  pores  of  earth,  that  moisten  every  atom 
subject  to  your  eyes  or  handled  by  your  touch,  you  are  startled 
and  dismayed;  you  say,  mentally,  "Can  such  things  be?     I 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  309 

never  dreamed  of  this  before !  I  thought  what  was  invisible 
to  me  was  non-existent  in  itself,  —  I  will  remember  this  dread 
experiment."  The  next  day  the  experiment  is  forgotten. 
The  Chemist  may  purify  the  Globule,  —  can  Science  make 
pure  the  World? 

Turn  we  now  to  the  pleasant  surface,  seen  in  the  whole, 
broad  and  fair  to  the  common  eye.  Who  would  judge  well  of 
God's  great  designs,  if  he  could  look  on  no  drop  pendent  from 
the  rose-tree  or  sparkling  in  the  sun  without  the  help  of  his 
solar  microscope? 

It  is  ten  years  after  the  night  on  which  William  Gawtrey 
perished.  I  transport  you,  reader,  to  the  fairest  scenes  in 
England,  —  scenes  consecrated  by  the  only  true  pastoral 
poetry  we  have  known  to  Contemplation  and  Repose. 

Autumn  had  begun  to  tinge  the  foliage  on  the  banks  of 
Winandermere.  It  had  been  a  summer  of  unusual  warmth 
and  beauty;  and  if  that  year  you  had  visited  the  English 
lakes,  you  might,  from  time  to  time,  amidst  the  groups  of 
happy  idlers  you  encountered,  have  singled  out  two  persons 
for  interest,  or,  perhaps,  for  envy,  —  two  who  might  have 
seemed  to  you  in  peculiar  harmony  with  those  serene  and  soft 
retreats,  both  young,  both  beautiful.  Lovers  you  would  have 
guessed  them  to  be;  but  such  lovers  as  Fletcher  might  have 
placed  under  the  care  of  his  "Holy  Shepherdess,"  —  forms 
that  might  have  reclined  by  — 

"The  virtuous  well,  about  whose  flowery  banks 
The  nimble-footed  fairies  dance  their  rounds 
By  the  pale  moonshine. 

Eor  in  the  love  of  those  persons  there  seemed  a  purity  and 
innocence  that  suited  well  their  youth  and  the  character  of 
their  beauty.  Perhaps,  indeed,  on  the  girl's  side,  love  sprung 
rather  from  those  affections  which  the  spring  of  life  throws 
upward  to  the  surface,  as  the  spring  of  earth  does  its  flowers, 
than  from  that  concentrated  and  deep  absorption  of  self  in 
self,  which  alone  promises  endurance  and  devotion,  and  of 
which  first  love,  or  rather  the  first  fancy,  is  often  less  suscep- 
tible than  that  which  grows  out  of  the  more  thoughtful  fond- 


310  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

ness  of  maturer  years.  Yet  he,  the  lover,  was  of  so  rare  and 
singular  a  beauty  that  he  might  well  seem  calculated  to 
awaken  to  the  utmost  the  love  which  wins  the  heart  through 
the  eyes. 

But  to  begin  at  the  beginning.  A  lady  of  fashion  had,  in 
the  autumn  previous  to  the  year  in  which  our  narrative  re- 
opens, taken,  with  her  daughter,  a  girl  then  of  about  eighteen, 
the  tour  of  the  English  lakes.  Charmed  by  the  beauty  of 
Winandermere,  and  finding  one  of  the  most  commodious  villas 
on  its  banks  to  be  let,  they  had  remained  there  all  the  winter. 
In  the  early  spring  a  severe  illness  had  seized  the  elder 
lady,  and  finding  herself,  as  she  slowly  recovered,  unfit  for 
the  gayeties  of  a  London  season,  nor  unwilling,  perhaps,  — 
for  she  had  been  a  beauty  in  her  day,  — to  postpone  for  an- 
other year  the  debut  of  her  daughter,  she  had  continued  her 
sojourn,  with  short  intervals  of  absence,  for  a  whole  year. 
Her  husband,  a  busy  man  of  the  world,  with  occupation  in 
London  and  fine  estates  in  the  country,  joined  them  only  occa- 
sionally, glad  to  escape  the  still  beauty  of  landscapes  which 
brought  him  no  rental,  and  therefore  afforded  no  charm  to 
his  eye. 

In  the  first  month  of  their  arrival  at  Winandermere,  the 
mother  and  daughter  had  made  an  eventful  acquaintance  in 
the  following  manner. 

One  evening,  as  they  were  walking  on  their  lawn,  which 
sloped  to  the  lake,  they  heard  the  sound  of  a  flute,  played 
with  a  skill  so  exquisite  as  to  draw  them,  surprised  and  spell- 
bound, to  the  banks.  The  musician  was  a  young  man  in  a 
boat,  which  he  had  moored  beneath  the  trees  of  their  de- 
mesne. He  was  alone,  or,  rather,  he  had  one  companion  in 
a  large  Newfoundland  dog,  that  sat  watchful  at  the  helm  of 
the  boat,  and  appeared  to  enjoy  the  music  as  much  as  his 
master.  As  the  ladies  approached  the  spot,  the  dog  growled, 
and  the  young  man  ceased,  though  without  seeing  the  fair 
causes  of  his  companion's  displeasure.  The  sun,  then  set- 
ting, shone  full  on  his  countenance  as  he  looked  round;  and 
that  countenance  was  one  that  might  have  haunted  the 
nymphs  of  Delos,  — the  face  of  Apollo,  not  as  the  hero  but 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  311 

the  shepherd,  not  of  the  bow  but  of  the  lute,  not  the  Python- 
slayer  but  the  young  dreamer  by  shady  places,  —  he  whom 
the  sculptor  has  portrayed  leaning  idly  against  the  tree,  —  the 
boy-god  whose  home  is  yet  on  earth,  and  to  whom  the  Oracle 
and  the  Spheres  are  still  unknown. 

At  that  moment  the  dog  leaped  from  the  boat,  and  the  elder 
lady  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  alarm,  which,  directing  the  atten- 
tion of  the  musician,  brought  him  also  ashore.  He  called  oif 
his  dog,  and  apologized,  with  a  not  ungraceful  mixture  of 
diffidence  and  ease,  for  his  intrusion.  He  was  not  aware  the 
place  was  inhabited,  it  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  his,  he  lived 
near.  The  elder  lady  was  pleased  with  his  address  and  struck 
with  his  appearance.  There  Avas,  indeed,  in  his  manner  that 
indefinable  charm  which  is  more  attractive  than  mere  personal 
appearance,  and  which  can  never  be  imitated  or  acquired. 
They  parted,  however,  without  establishing  any  formal  ac- 
quaintance. A  few  days  after,  they  met  at  dinner  at  a  neigh- 
bouring house,  and  were  introduced  by  name.  That  of  the 
young  man  seemed  strange  to  the  ladies ;  not  so  theirs  to  him. 
He  turned  pale  when  he  heard  it,  and  remained  silent  and 
aloof  the  rest  of  the  evening.  They  met  again,  and  often, 
and  for  some  weeks  —  nay,  even  for  months  —  he  appeared  to 
avoid  as  much  as  possible  the  acquaintance  so  auspiciously 
begun ;  but  by  little  and  little,  the  beauty  of  the  younger  lady 
seemed  to  gain  ground  on  his  diffidence  or  repugnance.  Ex- 
cursions among  the  neighbouring  mountains  threw  them 
together,  and  at  last  he  fairly  surrendered  himself  to  the 
charm  he  had  at  first  determined  to  resist. 

This  young  man  lived  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  in  a 
quiet  household,  of  which  he  was  the  idol.  His  life  had  been 
one  of  almost  monastic  purity  and  repose;  his  tastes  were 
accomplished,  his  character  seemed  soft  and  gentle;  but 
beneath  that  calm  exterior,  flashes  of  passion  —  the  nature 
of  the  poet,  ardent  and  sensitive  —  would  break  forth  at 
times.  He  had  scarcely  ever,  since  his  earliest  childhood, 
quitted  those  retreats;  he  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  except 
in  books,  —  books  of  poetry  and  romance.  Those  with  whom 
he  lived  —  his  relations,  an  old  bachelor,  and  the  old  bache- 


312  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

lor's  sisters,  old  maids  —  seemed  equally  innocent  and  inexpe- 
rienced. It  was  a  family  whom  tlie  rich  respected  and  the 
poor  loved,  —  inoffensive,  charitable,  and  well  off.  To  what- 
ever their  easy  fortune  might  be,  he  appeared  the  heir.  The 
name  of  this  young  man  was  Charles  Spencer;  tile  ladies 
were  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  Camilla  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  though  a  shrewd  woman,  did  not  at  first 
perceive  any  danger  in  the  growing  intimacy  between  Camilla 
and  the  younger  Spencer.  Her  daughter  was  not  her  favour- 
ite,—  not  the  object  of  her  one  thought  or  ambition.  Her 
whole  heart  and  soul  were  wrajjped  in  her  son  Arthur,  who 
lived  principally  abroad.  Clever  enough  to  be  considered 
capable,  when  he  pleased,  of  achieving  distinction,  good- 
looking  enough  to  be  thought  handsome  by  all  who  were 
on  the  qui  vive  for  an  advantageous  match,  good-natured 
enough  to  be  popular  with  the  society  in  which  he  lived, 
scattering  to  and  fro  money  without  limit,  —  Arthur  Beau- 
fort, at  the  age  of  thirty,  had  established  one  of  those  bril- 
liant and  evanescent  reputations,  which  for  a  few  years  reward 
the  ambition  of  the  fine  gentleman.  It  was  precisely  the 
reputation  that  the  mother  could  appreciate,  and  which  even 
the  more  saving  father  secretly  admired,  while,  ever  respect- 
able in  phrase,  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  seemed  openly  to  regret 
it.  This  son  was,  I  say,  everything  to  them;  they  cared  little 
in  comparison  for  their  daughter.  How  could  a  daughter 
keep  up  the  proud  name  of  Beaufort?  However  well  she 
might  marry,  it  was  another  house,  not  theirs,  which  her 
graces  and  beauty  would  adorn.  Moreover,  the  better  she 
might  marry  the  greater  her  dowry  would  naturally  be,  — the 
dowry,  to  go  out  of  the  family!  And  Arthur,  poor  fellow! 
was  so  extravagant,  that  really  he  would  want  every  sixpence. 
Such  was  the  reasoning  of  the  father.  The  mother  reasoned 
less  upon  the  matter.  Mrs.  Beaufort,  faded  and  meagre,  in 
blonde  and  cashmere,  was  jealous  of  the  charms  of  her  daugh- 
ter; and  she  herself,  growing  sentimental  and  lachrymose  as 
she  advanced  in  life,  as  silly  women  often  do,  had  convinced 
herself  that  Camilla  was  a  girl  of  no  feeling. 

Miss  Beaufort  was,  indeed,  of  a  character  singularly  calm 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  313 

and  placid ;  it  was  the  character  that  charms  men  in  propor- 
tion, perhaps,  to  their  own  strength  and  passion.  She  had 
been  rigidly  brought  up;  her  affections  had  been  very  early 
chilled  and  subdued ;  they  moved,  therefore,  now,  with  ease 
in  the  serene  path  of  her  duties.  She  held  her  parents,  espe- 
cially her  father,  in  reverential  fear,  and  never  dreamed  of 
the  possibility  of  resisting  one  of  their  wishes,  much  less 
their  commands.  Pious,  kind,  gentle,  of  a  fine  and  never 
ruffled  temper,  Camilla,  an  admirable  daughter,  was  likely  to 
make  no  less  admirable  a  wife;  you  might  depend  on  her 
principles,  if  ever  you  could  doubt  her  affection.  Few  girls 
were  more  calculated  to  inspire  love.  You  would  scarcely 
wonder  at  any  folly,  any  madness,  which  even  a  wise  man 
might  commit  for  her  sake.  This  did  not  depend  on  her 
beauty  alone,  though  she  was  extremely  lovely  rather  than 
handsome,  and  of  that  style  of  loveliness  which  is  universally 
fascinating ;  the  figure,  especially  as  to  the  arms,  throat,  and 
bust,  was  exquisite;  the  mouth  dimpled;  the  teeth  dazzling; 
the  eyes  of  that  velvet  softness  which  to  look  on  is  to  love. 
But  her  charm  was  in  a  certain  prettiness  of  manner,  an  ex- 
ceeding innocence,  mixed  with  the  most  captivating,  because 
unconscious,  coquetry.  With  all  this,  there  was  a  freshness, 
a  joy,  a  virgin  and  bewitching  candour  in  her  voice,  her  laugh, 
—  you  might  almost  say  in  her  very  movements.  Such  was 
Camilla  Beaufort  at  that  age.  Such  she  seemed  to  others. 
To  her  parents  she  was  only  a  great  girl  rather  in  the  way,  — 
to  Mrs.  Beaufort  a  rival,  to  Mr.  Beaufort  an  encumbrance  on 
the  property. 


314  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

The  moon 
Saddening  the  solemn  night,  yet  with  that  sadness 
Mingling  the  breath  of  undisturbed  Peace. 

Wilson  :    City  of  the  Plague. 

Tell  me  his  fate. 
Say  that  he  lives,  or  say  that  he  is  dead : 
But  tell  me,  tell  me  ! 

I  see  him  not,  some  cloud  envelops  him.  —  Ibid. 

OsTE  day,  nearly  a  year  after  their  first  introduction,  as  with 
a  party  of  friends  Camilla  and  Charles  Spencer  were  riding 
through  those  wild  and  romantic  scenes  which  lie  between 
the  sunny  Winandermere  and  the  dark  and  sullen  Wastwater, 
their  conversation  fell  on  topics  more  personal  than  it  had 
hitherto  done,  for  as  yet,  if  they  felt  love,  they  had  never 
spoken  of  it. 

The  narrowness  of  the  path  allowed  only  two  to  ride 
abreast,  and  the  two  to  whom  I  confine  my  description  were 
the  last  of  the  little  band. 

"How  I  wish  Arthur  were  here!  "  said  Camilla;  "I  am  sure 
you  would  like  him." 

"Are  you  ?  He  1  i  ves  much  in  the  world,  —  the  world  of  which 
I  know  nothing.    Are  we  then  characters  to  suit  each  other?  " 

"  He  is  the  kindest,  the  best  of  human  beings ! "  said 
Camilla,  rather  evasively,  but  with  more  warmth  than  usually 
dwelt  in  her  soft  and  low  voice. 

"Is  he  so  kind?"  returned  Spencer,  musingly.  "Well,  it 
may  be  so.  And  who  would  not  be  kind  to  you?  Ah,  it  is  a 
beautiful  connection,  —  that  of  brother  and  sister !  I  never 
had  a  sister !  " 

"Have  you  then  a  brother?"  asked  Camilla,  in  some  sur^ 
prise,  and  turning  her  ingenuous  eyes  full  on  her  companion. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  315 

Spencer's  colour  rose, — rose  to  his  temples.  His  voice 
trembled  as  he  answered,  "No,  no  brother!"  then,  speaking 
in  a  rapid  and  hurried  tone,  he  continued,  "My  life  has  been 
a  strange  and  lonely  one.  I  am  an  orphan.  I  have  mixed 
with  few  of  my  own  age ;  my  boyhood  and  youth  have  been 
spent  in  these  scenes;  my  education  such  as  Nature  and  books 
could  bestow,  with  scarcely  any  guide  or  tutor  save  my  guar- 
dian, the  dear  old  man!  Thus  the  world,  the  stir  of  cities, 
ambition,  enterprise,  —all  seem  to  me  as  things  belonging  to 
a  distant  land  to  which  I  shall  never  wander.  Yet  I  have 
had  my  dreams.  Miss  Beaufort,  dreams  of  which  these  soli- 
tudes still  form  a  part,  but  solitudes  not  unshared;  and  lately 
I  have  thought  that  those  dreams  might  be  prophetic.  And 
you  —  do  you  love  the  world?" 

"I,  like  you,  have  scarcely  tried  it,"  said  Camilla,  with  a 
sweet  laugh;  "but  I  love  the  country  better,  — oh!  far  better 
than  what  little  I  have  seen  of  towns.  But  for  you,"  she  con- 
tinued, with  a  charming  hesitation,  "a  man  is  so  different 
from  us, —for  you  to  shrink  from  the  world,  you,  so  young 
and  with  talents  too  —  nay,  it  is  true!  —  it  seems  to  me 
strange." 

"It  may  be  so;  but  I  cannot  tell  you  what  feelings  of 
dread,  what  vague  forebodings  of  terror  seize  me  if  I  carry 
my  thoughts  beyond  these  retreats.  Perhaps  my  good 
guardian  —  " 

"Your  uncle?"  interrupted  Camilla. 

"Ay,  my  uncle,  may  have  contributed  to  engender  feelings, 
as  you  say,  strange  at  my  age ;  but  still  —  " 
"Still  what!" 

"My  earlier  childhood,"  continued  Spencer,  breathing  hard 
and  turning  pale,  "  was  not  spent  in  the  happy  home^  I  have 
now;  it  was  passed  in  a  premature  ordeal  of  suffering  and 
pain.  Its  recollections  have  left  a  dark  shadow  on  my  mind, 
and  under  that  shadow  lies  every  thought  that  points  towards 
the  troublous  and  labouring  career  of  other  men.  But,"  he 
resumed  after  a  pause,  and  in  a  deep,  earnest,  almost  solemn 
voice,  —"but,  after  all,  is  this  cowardice  or  wisdom?  I  find 
no  monotony,  no  tedium  in  this  quiet  life.  Is  there  not  a  cer- 
tain morality,  a  certain  religion,  in  the  spirit  of  a  secluded 


316  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

and  country  existence?  In  it  we  do  not  know  the  evil  pas- 
sions which  ambition  and  strife  are  said  to  arouse.  I  never 
feel  jealous  or  envious  of  other  men ;  I  never  know  what  it  is 
to  hate ;  my  boat,  my  horse,  our  garden,  music,  books,  and,  if 
I  may  dare  to  say  so,  the  solemn  gladness  that  comes  from  the 
hopes  of  another  life,  —  these  fill  up  every  hour  with  thoughts 
and  pursuits,  peaceful,  happy,  and  without  a  cloud,  till  of 
late,  when  —  when  —  " 

"  When  what?  "  said  Camilla,  innocently. 

"When  I  have  longed,  but  did  not  dare  to  ask  another,  if 
to  share  such  a  lot  would  content  her !  " 

He  bent,  as  he  spoke,  his  soft  blue  eyes  full  upon  the  blush- 
ing face  of  her  whom  he  addressed,  and  Camilla  half  smiled 
and  half  sighed. 

"Our  companions  are  far  before  us,"  said  she,  turning  away 
her  face,  "and  see,  the  road  is  now  smooth."  She  quickened 
her  horse's  pace  as  she  said  this;  and  Spencer,  too  new  to 
women  to  interpret  favourably  her  evasion  of  his  words  and 
looks,  fell  into  a  profound  silence  which  lasted  during  the 
rest  of  their  excursion. 

As  towards  the  decline  of  day  he  bent  his  solitary  way 
home,  emotions  and  passions  to  which  his  life  had  hitherto 
been  a  stranger,  and  which,  alas!  he  had  vainly  imagined  a 
life  so  tranquil  would  everlastingly  restrain,  swelled  his 
heart, 

"She  does  not  love  me,"  he  muttered,  half  aloud;  "she  will 
leave  me,  and  what  then  will  all  the  beauty  of  the  landscape 
seem  in  my  eyes?  And  how  dare  I  look  up  to  her?  Even  if 
her  cold,  vain  mother,  her  father,  the  man,  they  say,  of  forms 
and  scruples,  were  to  consent,  would  they  not  question  closely 
of  my  true  birth  and  origin?  And  if  the  one  blot  were  over- 
looked, is  there  no  other?  His  early  habits  and  vices,  his!  — 
a  brother's  —  his  unknown  career  terminating  at  any  day, 
perhaps,  in  shame,  in  crime,  in  exposure,  in  the  gibbet,  — 
will  they  overlook  this?"  As  he  spoke,  he  groaned  aloud, 
and  as  if  impatient  to  escape  himself,  spurred  on  his  horse 
and  rested  not  till  he  reached  the  belt  of  trim  and  sober  ever- 
greens that  surrounded  his  hitherto  happy  home. 

Leaving  his  horse  to  find  its  way  to  the  stables,  the  young 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  317 

man  passed  through  rooms  which  he  found  deserted  to  the 
lawn  on  the  other  side,  which  sloped  to  the  smooth  waters  of 
the  lake. 

Here,  seated  under  the  one  large  tree  that  formed  the  pride 
of  the  lawn,  over  which  it  cast  its  shadow  broad  and  far,  he 
perceived  his  guardian  poring  idly  over  an  oft-read  book,  one 
of  those  books  of  which  literary  dreamers  are  apt  to  grow 
fanatically  fond,  — books  by  the  old  English  writers,  full  of 
phrases  and  conceits  half  quaint  and  half  sublime,  inter- 
spersed with  praises  of  the  country,  imbued  Avith  a  poetical 
rather  than  orthodox  religion,  and  adorned  with  a  strange 
mixture  of  monastic  learning  and  aphorisms  collected  from 
the  weary  experience  of  actual  life. 

To  the  left,  by  a  greenhouse,  built  between  the  house  and 
the  lake,  might  be  seen  the  white  dress  and  lean  form  of  the 
eldest  spinster  sister,  to  whom  the  care  of  the  flowers  —  for 
she  had  been  early  crossed  in  love  —  was  consigned;  at  a  little 
distance  from  her,  the  other  two  were  seated  at  work,  and  con- 
versing in  whispers,  not  to  disturb  their  studious  brother,  no 
doubt  upon  the  nephew,  who  was  their  all  in  all.  It  was  the 
calmest  hour  of  eve,  and  the  quiet  of  the  several  forms,  their 
simple  and  harmless  occupations,  —  if  occupations  they  might 
be  called, — the  breathless  foliage  rich  in  the  depth  of  sum- 
mer ;  behind,  the  old-fashioned  house,  unpretending,  not  mean, 
its  open  doors  and  windows  giving  glimpses  of  the  comfortable 
repose  within ;  before,  the  lake,  without  a  ripple  and  catching 
the  gleam  of  the  sunset  clouds,  —  all  made  a  picture  of  that 
complete  tranquillity  and  stillness,  which  sometimes  soothes 
and  sometimes  saddens  us,  according  as  we  are  in  the  temper 
to  woo  Context. 

The  young  man  glided  to  his  guardian  and  touched  his 
shoulder.  "Sir,  may  I  speak  to  you?  Hush!  thefj  need  not 
see  us  now!  it  is  only  you  I  would  speak  with." 

The  elder  Spencer  rose ;  and  with  his  book  still  in  his  hand, 
moved  side  by  side  with  his  nephew  under  the  shadow  of  the 
tree  and  towards  a  walk  to  the  right,  which  led  for  a  short 
distance  along  the  margin  of  the  lake,  backed  by  the  inter- 
laced boughs  of  a  thick  copse. 


318  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Sir,"  said  the  young  man,  speaking  first,  and  with  a 
visible  effort,  "your  cautions  have  been  in  vain!  I  love  this 
girl,  this  daughter  of  the  haughty  Beauforts !  I  love  her,  — 
better  than  life  I  love  her!  " 

"My  poor  boy,"  said  the  uncle,  tenderly,  and  with  a  simple 
fondness  passing  his  arm  over  the  speaker's  shoulder,  "  do  not 
think  I  can  chide  you ;  I  know  what  it  is  to  love  in  vain ! " 

"In  vain!  but  why  in  vain?"  exclaimed  the  younger 
Spencer,  with  a  vehemence  that  had  in  it  something  of 
both  agony  and  fierceness.  "She  may  love  me,  she  shall 
love  me !  "  and  almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  proud 
consciousness  of  his  rare  gifts  of  person  spoke  in  his  kindled 
eye  and  dilated  stature.  "Do  they  not  say  that  Nature  has 
been  favourable  to  me?  What  rival  have  I  here?  Is  she  not 
young?  And"  (sinking his  voice  till  it  almost  breathed  like 
music)  "is  not  love  contagious?" 

"I  do  not  doubt  that  she  may  love  you,  — who  would  not? 
But  —  but  —  the  parents,  will  they  ever  consent?" 

"Nay!"  answered  the  lover,  as  with  that  inconsistency 
common  to  passion,  he  now  argued  stubbornlj'-  against  those 
fears  in  another  to  which  he  had  just  before  yielded  in  him- 
self, —  "nay!  after  all,  am  I  not  of  their  own  blood?  Do  I 
not  come  from  the  elder  branch?  Was  I  not  reared  in  equal 
luxury  and  with  higher  hopes?  And  my  mother  —  my  poor 
mother  —  did  she  not  to  the  last  maintain  our  birthright,  her 
own  honour?  Has  not  accident  or  law  unjustly  stripped  us 
of  our  true  station?  Is  it  not  for  us  to  forgive  spoliation? 
Am  I  not,  in  fact,  the  person  who  descends,  who  forgets  the 
wrongs  of  the  dead,  the  heritage  of  the  living?  " 

The  young  man  had  never  yet  assumed  this  tone,  had  never 
yet  shown  that  he  looked  back  to  the  history  connected  with 
his  birth  with  the  feelings  of  resentment  and  the  remembrance 
of  wrong.  It  was  a  tone  contrary  to  his  habitual  calm  and 
contentment.  It  struck  forcibly  on  his  listener,  and  the  elder 
Spencer  was  silent  for  some  moments  before  he  replied,  "If 
you  feel  thus  (and  it  is  natural),  you  have  yet  stronger  reason 
to  struggle  against  this  unhappy  affection." 

"I  have  been  conscious  of  that,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  319 

mournfully.  "I  have  struggled!  and  I  say  again  it  is  in  vain! 
I  turu,  then,  to  face  the  obstacles !  My  birth  —  let  us  suppose 
that  the  Beauforts  overlook  it.  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  Mr. 
Beaufort  wrote  to  inform  you  of  the  abrupt  and  intemperate 
visit  of  my  brother,  of  his  determination  never  to  forgive  it? 
I  think  I  remember  something  of  this  years  ago." 

"  It  is  true !  "  said  the  guardian ;  "  and  the  conduct  of  that 
brother  is,  in  fact,  the  true  cause  why  you  never  ought  to 
reassume  your  proper  name;  never  to  divulge  it,  even  to  the 
family  with  whom  you  connect  yourself  by  marriage;  but, 
above  all,  to  the  Beauforts,  who  for  that  cause,  if  that  cause 
alone,  would  reject  your  suit." 

The  young  man  groaned,  placed  one  hand  before  his  eyes, 
and  with  the  other  grasped  his  guardian's  arm  convulsively, 
as  if  to  check  him  from  proceeding  further;  but  the  good 
man,  not  divining  his  meaning,  and  absorbed  in  his  subject, 
went  on,  irritating  the  wound  he  had  touched. 

"Eeflect!  Your  brother  in  boyhood,  in  the  dying  hours  of 
his  mother,  scarcely  saved  from  the  crime  of  a  thief,  flying 
from  a  friendly  pursuit  with  a  notorious  reprobate;  after- 
wards implicated  in  some  discreditable  transaction  about  a 
horse,  rejecting  all,  every  hand  that  could  save  him,  clinging 
by  choice  to  the  lowest  companions  and  the  meanest  habits, 
disappearing  from  the  country,  and  last  seen,  ten  years  ago, 
—  the  beard  not  yet  on  his  chin,  —  with  that  same  reprobate 
of  whom  I  have  spoken,  in  Paris,  a  day  or  so  only  before  his 
companion,  a  coiner,  a  murderer,  fell  by  the  hands  of  the 
police !  You  remember  that  when,  in  your  seventeenth  year, 
you  evinced  some  desire  to  retake  your  name  —  nay,  even  to 
refind  that  guilty  brother  —  I  placed  before  you,  as  a  sad  and 
terrible  duty,  the  newspaper  that  contained  the  particulars  of 
the  death  and  the  former  adventures  of  that  wretched  accom- 
plice, the  notorious  Gawtrey;  and  telling  you  that  Mr.  Beau- 
fort had  long  since  written  to  inform  me  that  his  own  son  and 
Lord  Lilburne  had  seen  your  brother  in  company  with  the 
miscreant  just  before  his  fate,  —  nay,  was,  in  all  probability, 
the  verj^  youth  described  in  the  account  as  found  in  his  cham- 
ber and  escaping  the  pursuit,  —  I  asked  you  if  you  would  now 


320  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

venture  to  leave  that  disguise,  tliat  shelter  under  which  you 
would  forever  be  safe  from  the  opprobrium  of  the  world,  from 
the  shame  that,  sooner  or  later,  your  brother  must  bring  upon 
your  name !  " 

"  It  is  true !  it  is  true ! "  said  the  pretended  nephew,  in  a 
tone  of  great  anguish,  and  with  trembling  lips  which  the 
blood  had  forsaken.  "Horrible  to  look  either  to  his  past  or 
his  future !  But  —  but  —  we  have  heard  of  him  no  more  —  no 
one  ever  has  learned  his  fate.  Perhaps  —  perhaps  "  (and  he 
seemed  to  breathe  more  freely)  —  "  my  brother  is  no  more  !  " 

And  poor  Catherine!  and  poor  Philip!  had  it  come  to  this? 
Did  the  one  brother  feel  a  sentiment  of  release,  of  joy,  in  con- 
jecturing the  death  —  perhaps  the  death  of  violence  and  shame 
—  of  his  fellow-orphan?  Mr.  Spencer  shook  his  head  doubt- 
ingly,  but  made  no  reply.  The  young  man  sighed  heavily 
and  strode  on  for  several  paces  in  advance  of  his  protector, 
then,  turning  back,  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Sir,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice  and  with  downcast  eyes,  "you 
are  right:  this  disguise,  this  false  name,  must  be  forever 
borne!  Why  need  the  Beauforts,  then,  ever  know  who  and 
what  I  am?  Why  not  as  your  nephew — nephew  to  one  so 
respected  and  exemplary  —  proffer  my  claims  and  plead  my 
cause? " 

"  They  are  proud  —  so  it  is  said  —  and  worldly.  You  know 
my  family  was  in  trade  —  still  —  but  —  "  and  here  Mr. 
Spencer  broke  off  from  a  tone  of  doubt  into  that  of  despond- 
ency, "but,  recollect,  though  Mrs.  Beaufort  may  not  remember 
the  circumstance,  both  her  husband  and  her  son  have  seen 
me,  have  known  my  name.  Will  they  not  suspect,  when 
once  introduced  to  you,  the  stratagem  that  has  been  adopted? 
Nay,  has  it  not  been  from  that  very  fear  that  you  have 
wished  me  to  shun  the  acquaintance  of  the  family?  Both  Mr. 
Beaufort  and  Arthur  saw  you  in  childhood,  and  their  suspicion 
once  aroused,  they  may  recognize  you  at  once ;  your  features 
are  developed,  but  not  altogether  changed.  Come,  come !  my 
adopted,  my  dear  son,  shake  off  this  fantasy  betimes.  Let  us 
change  the  scene;  I  will  travel  with  you,  read  with  you,  go 
where  — '' 


NIGHT  AKD  MORNING.  321 

"Sir!  sir!"  exclaimed  the  lover,  smiting  his  breast,  "you 
are  ever  kind,  compassionate,  generous;  but  do  not,  do  not 
rob  me  of  hope.  I  have  never  —  thanks  to  you  —  felt,  save 
in  a  momentary  dejection,  the  curse  of  my  birth.  Kow  how 
heavily  it  falls!     Where  shall  I  look  for  comfort?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  sound  of  a  bell  broke  over  the  translucent 
air  and  the  slumbering  lake :  it  was  the  bell  that  every  eve 
and  morn  summoned  that  innocent  and  pious  family  to  prayer. 
The  old  man's  face  changed  as  he  heard  it,  —  changed  from  its 
customary  indolent,  absent,  listless  aspect  into  an  expression 
of  dignity,  even  of  animation. 

"Hark!"  he  said,  pointing  upwards ;  "hark!  it  chides  you. 
Who  shall  say,  '  Where  shall  I  look  for  comfort '  while  God  is 
in  the  heavens?" 

The  young  man,  habituated  to  the  faith  and  observance  of 
religion  till  they  had  pervaded  his  whole  nature,  bowed  his 
head  in  rebuke;  a  few  tears  stole  from  his  eyes. 

"You  are  right.  Father,"  he  said  tenderly,  giving  emphasis 
to  the  deserved  and  endearing  name.  "I  am  comforted 
already ! " 

So,  side  by  side,  silently  and  noiselessly,  the  young  and  the 
old  man  glided  back  to  the  house.  When  they  gained  the 
quiet  room  in  which  the  family  usually  assembled,  the  sisters 
and  servants  were  already  gathered  round  the  table.  They 
knelt  as  the  loiterers  entered.  It  was  the  wonted  duty  of  the 
younger  Spencer  to  read  the  prayers ;  and  as  he  now  did  so, 
his  graceful  countenance  more  hushed,  his  sweet  voice  more 
earnest  than  usual,  in  its  accents,  who  that  heard  could  have 
deemed  the  heart  within  convulsed  by  such  stormy  passions? 
Or  was  it  not  in  that  hour  —  that  solemn  commune  —  soothed 
from  its  woe?  0  beneficent  Creator!  Thou  who  inspirest  all 
the  tribes  of  earth  with  the  desire  to  j'^my,  hast  Thou  not,  in 
that  divinest  instinct,  bestowed  on  us  the  happiest  of  Thy 
gifts? 

21 


822  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Bertram.  I  mean  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fearing  to  hear  of  it  here- 
after. 

1st  Soldier.    Do  you  know  this  Captain  Dumaini 

AH  's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

One  evening,  some  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  last  chap- 
ter, Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort  sat  alone  in  his  house  in  Berkeley 
Square.  He  had  arrived  that  morning  from  Beaufort  Court 
on  his  way  to  Winandermere,  to  which  he  was  summoned  by 
a  letter  from  his  wife.  That  year  was  an  agitated  and  event- 
ful epoch  in  England;  and  Mr.  Beaufort  had  recently  gone 
through  the  bustle  of  an  election,  —  not,  indeed,  contested; 
for  his  popularity  and  his  property  defied  all  rivalry  in  his 
own  county. 

The  rich  man  had  just  dined,  and  was  seated  in  lazy  en- 
joyment by  the  side  of  the  fire,  which  he  had  had  lighted, 
less  for  the  warmth  —  though  it  was  then  September  —  than 
for  the  companionship,  engaged  in  finishing  his  madeira,  and, 
with  half-closed  eyes,  munching  his  devilled  biscuits.  "I 
am  sure,"  he  soliloquized  while  thus  employed,  "I  don't 
know  exactly  what  to  do.  My  wife  ought  to  decide  matters 
where  the  girl  is  concerned;  a  son  is  another  aifair  —  that's 
the  use  of  a  wife.     Humph!  " 

"Sir,"  said  a  fat  servant,  opening  the  door,  "a  gentleman 
wishes  to  see  you  upon  very  particular  business." 

"Business  at  this  hour!    Tell  him  to  go  to  Mr.  Blackwell." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Stay!  perhaps  he  is  a  constituent,  Simmons.  Ask  him  if 
he  belongs  to  the  county." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"A  great  estate  is  a  great  plague,"  muttered  Mr.  Beaufort; 
"  so  is  a  great  constituency.     It  is  pleasanter,  after  all,  to  be 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  323 

in  the  House  of  Lords.  I  suppose  I  could  if  I  wished;  but 
then  one  must  rat,  — that's  a  bore.  I  will  consult  Lilburue. 
Humph !  "     The  servant  re-appeared. 

"Sir,  he  says  he  does  belong  to  the  county." 

" Show  him  in!     What  sort  of  a  person?  " 

"A  sort  of  gentleman,  sir;  that  is,"  continued  the  butler, 
mindful  of  five  shillings  just  slipped  within  his  palm  by  the 
stranger,  "quite  the  gentleman." 

"More  wine,  then;  stir  up  the  fire." 

In  a  few  moments  the  visitor  was  ushered  into  the  apart- 
ment. He  was  a  man  between  fifty  and  sixty,  but  still  aim- 
ing at  the  appearance  of  youth.  His  dress  evinced  military 
pretensions, —  consisting  of  a  blue  coat,  buttoned  up  to  the 
chin,  a  black  stock,  loose  trousers  of  the  fashion  called  cos- 
sacks,  and  brass  spurs.  He  wore  a  wig,  of  great  luxuriance 
in  curl  and  rich  auburn  in  hue;  with  large  whiskers  of  the 
same  colour  slightly  tinged  with  gray  at  the  roots.  By  the 
imperfect  light  of  the  room  it  was  not  perceptible  that 
the  clothes  were  somewhat  threadbare,  and  that  the  boots, 
cracked  at  the  side,  admitted  glimpses  of  no  very  white  hos- 
iery within.  Mr.  Beaufort,  reluctantly  rising  from  his  re- 
pose and  gladly  sinking  back  to  it,  motioned  to  a  chair,  and 
put  on  a  doleful  and  doubtful  semi-smile  of  welcome.  The 
servant  placed  the  wine  and  glasses  before  the  stranger;  the 
host  and  visitor  were  alone. 

"So,  sir,"  said   Mr.   Beaufort,  languidly,   "you  are   from 

shire;  I  suppose  about  the  canal,  —  may  I  offer  you  a 

glass  of  wine?" 

"Most  hauppy,  sir,  —  your  health!  "  and  the  stranger,  with 
evident  satisfaction,  tossed  off  a  bumper  to  so  complimentary 
a  toast. 

"About  the  canal?"  repeated  Mr.  Beaufort. 

"iSTo,  sir,  no!  You  parliament  gentlemen  must  hauve  a 
vaust  deal  of  trouble  on  your  haunds ;  very  f oine  property  I 
understaund  yours  is,  sir.  Sir,  allow  me  to  drink  the  health 
of  your  good  lady !  " 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  what  did  you  say  your  name 
was?    I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons." 


324  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

"No  offaunce  in  the  least,  sir;  no  ceremony  with  me.  This 
is  perticler  good  madeira!  " 

"May  I  ask  how  I  can  serve  you?"  said  Mr.  Beaufort, 
struggling  between  the  sense  of  annoyance  and  the  fear  to  be 
uncivil.  "And  pray,  had  I  the  honour  of  your  vote  in  the 
last  election?" 

"No,  sir,  no!  It's  mauny  years  since  I  have  been  in  your 
part  of  the  world,  though  I  was  born  there." 

"Then  I  don't  exactly  see  — "  began  Mr.  Beaufort,  and 
stopped  with  dignity. 

"  Why  I  call  on  you,"  put  in  the  stranger,  tapping  his  boots 
with  his  cane;  and  then  recognizing  the  rents,  he  thrust 
both  feet  under  the  table. 

"I  don't  say  that;  but  at  this  hour  I  am  seldom  at  leisure 
—  not  but  what  I  am  alwaj^s  at  the  service  of  a  constituent, 
that  is,  a  voter !  Mr.  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  catch 
your  name." 

"Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  helping  himself  to  a  third  glass 
of  wine;  "here 's  a  health  to  your  young  folk!  And  now  to 
business."  Here  the  visitor,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  his 
host,  assuming  a  more  grave  aspect,  and  dropping  something 
of  his  stilted  pronunciation,  continued,  "  You  had  a  brother?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  with  a  very  changed 
countenance. 

"And  that  brother  had  a  wife!  " 

Had  a  cannon  gone  off  in  the  ear  of  Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort, 
it  could  not  have  shocked  or  stunned  him  more  than  that 
simple  word  with  which  his  companion  closed  his  sentence. 
He  fell  back  in  his  chair,  his  lips  apart,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
stranger.  He  sought  to  speak,  but  his  tongue  clove  to  his 
mouth. 

"That  wife  had  two  sons,  born  in  wedlock!  " 

"It  is  false!"  cried  Mr.  Beaufort,  finding  a  voice  at 
length,  and  springing  to  his  feet.  "And  who  are  you,  sir? 
and  what  do  you  mean  by  — " 

"  Hush !  "  said  the  stranger,  perfectly  unconcerned,  and  re- 
gaining the  dignity  of  his  haw-haw  enunciation,  "  better  not 
let  the  servants  hear  aunything.     For  my  pawt,  I  think  ser- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  325 

vants  hauve  the  longest  pair  of  ears  of  auny  persons,  not  ex- 
cepting jauckasses ;  their  ears  stretch  from  the  pauntry  to  the 
parlour.     Hush,  sir!     Perticler  good  madeira,  this !  " 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  struggling  to  preserve,  or  rather 
recover,  his  temper,  "your  conduct  is  exceedingly  strange; 
but  allow  me  to  say  that  you  are  wholly  misinformed.  My 
brother  never  did  marry ;  and  if  you  have  anything  to  say  on 
behalf  of  those  young  men  —  his  natural  sons  —  I  refer  you  to 
my  solicitor,  Mr.  Blackwell,  of  Lincoln's  Inn.  I  wish  you  a 
good  evening." 

"Sir,  the  same  to  you.  I  won't  trouble  you  auny  further; 
it  was  only  out  of  koindness  I  called, —  I  am  not  used  to  be 
treated  so.  Sir,  I  am  in  his  Maujesty's  service;  sir,  you  will 
foind  that  the  witness  of  the  marriage  is  forthcoming;  you 
will  think  of  me  then,  and  perhaps  be  sorry.  But  I  've  done. 
'  Y^our  most  obedient  humble,  sir! '  "  And  the  stranger,  with 
a  flourish  of  his  hand,  turned  to  the  door. 

At  the  sight  of  this  determination  on  the  part  of  his  strange 
guest,  a  cold,  uneasy,  vague  presentiment  seized  Mr.  Beaufort. 
There,  not  flashed,  but  rather  froze,  across  him  the  recollec- 
tion of  his  brother's  emphatic  but  disbelieved  assurances,  of 
Catherine's  obstinate  assertion  of  her  son's  alleged  rights,  — 
rights  which  her  lawsuit,  undertaken  on  her  own  behalf,  had 
not  compromised.  A  fresh  lawsuit  might  be  instituted  by  the 
son,  and  the  evidence  which  had  been  wanting  in  the  former 
suit  might  be  found  at  last.  With  this  remembrance  and 
these  reflections  came  a  horrible  train  of  shadowy  fears, — 
witnesses,  verdict,   surrender,   spoliation,   arrears,   ruin! 

The  man,  who  had  gained  the  door,  turned  back  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  complacent,  half-triumphant  leer  upon  his 
impudent,  reckless  face. 

"Sir,"  then  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  mildly,  "I  repeat  that  you 
had  better  see  Mr.  Blackwell." 

The  tempter  saw  his  triumph.  "  I  have  a  secret  to  commu- 
nicate which  it  is  best  for  you  to  keep  snug.  How  mauny 
people  do  you  wish  me  to  see  about  it?  Come,  sir,  there  is 
no  need  of  a  lawyer;  or  if  you  think  so,  tell  him  yourself. 
Now  or  never,  Mr.  Beaufort." 

"I  can  have  no  objection  to  hear  anything  you  have  to  say, 


326  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

sir,"  said  the  rich  man,  yet  more  mildly  than  before;  and 
then  added,  with  a  forced  smile,  "though  my  rights  are 
already  too  confirmed  to  admit  of  a  doubt." 

Without  heeding  the  last  assertion,  the  stranger  coolly 
walked  back,  resumed  his  seat,  and,  placing  both  arms  on 
the  table  and  looking  Mr.  Beaufort  full  in  the  face,  thus 
proceeded, — 

"  Sir,  of  the  marriage  between  Philip  Beaufort  and  Catherine 
Morton  there  Avere  two  witnesses :  the  one  is  dead,  the  other 
went  abroad.     The  last  is  alive  still !  " 

"  If  so, "  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  who,  not  naturally  deficient  in 
cunning  and  sense,  felt  every  faculty  now  prodigiously  sharp- 
ened, and  was  resolved  to  know  the  precise  grounds  for  alarm, 
—  "  if  so,  why  did  not  the  man  —  it  was  a  servant,  sir,  a  man- 
servant, whom  Mrs.  Morton  pretended  to  rely  on  —  appear  on 
the  trial?" 

"Because,  I  say,  he  was  abroad  and  could  not  be  found;  or 
the  search  after  him  miscaurried,  from  clumsy  management 
and  a  lack  of  the  rhino." 

"  Hum !  "  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  "  one  witness  —  one  witness, 
observe,  there  is  only  one !  —  does  not  alarm  me  much.  It  is 
not  what  a  man  deposes, —  it  is  what  a  jury  believe,  sir! 
Moreover,  what  has  become  of  the  young  men?  They  have 
never  been  heard  of  for  years.  They  are  probably  dead;  if 
so  I  am  heir-at-law ! " 

"I  know  where  one  of  them  is  to  be  found  at  all  events." 

"The  elder, — Philip?"  asked  Mr.  Beaufort,  anxiously,  and 
with  a  fearful  remembrance  of  the  energetic  and  vehement 
character  prematurely  exhibited  by  his  nephew. 

"Pawdon  me!     I  need  not  aunswer  that  question." 

"Sir!  a  lawsuit  of  this  nature,  against  one  in  possession, 
is  very  doubtful,  and,"  added  the  rich  man,  drawing  himself 
up, —  "and,   perhaps  very  expensive!" 

"  The  young  man  I  speak  of  does  not  want  friends  who  will 
not  grudge  the  money." 

"Sir!"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  rising  and  placing  his  back  to 
the  fire, —  "sir!  what  is  your  object  in  this  communication? 
Do  you  come  on  the  part  of  the  young  man  to  propose  a 
compromise?    If  so,  be  plain!" 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  327 

"  I  come  on  my  own  pawt.  It  rests  with  you  to  say  if  the 
young  men  shall  never  know  it !  " 

"  And  what  do  you  want?  " 

"Five  hundred  a  year  as  long  as  the  secret  is  kept." 

"And  how  can  you  prove  that  there  is  a  secret,  after  all?" 

"By  producing  the  witness  if  you  wish," 

"Will  he  go  halves  in  the  £500  a  year?"  asked  Mr.  Beau- 
fort, artfully. 

"That  is  uioy  affair,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger. 

"What  you  say,"  resumed  Mr.  Beaufort,  "is  so  extraordi- 
nary, so  unexpected,  and  still  to  me  seems  so  improbable, 
that  I  must  have  time  to  consider.  If  you  will  call  on  me  in 
a  week  and  produce  your  facts,  I  will  give  you  my  answer. 
I  am  not  the  man,  sir,  to  wish  to  keep  any  one  out  of  his  true 
rights,  but  I  will  not  yield,  on  the  other  hand,  to  imposture." 

"If  you  don't  want  to  keep  them  out  of  their  rights,  I'd 
best  go  and  tell  my  young  gentlemen,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
cool  impudence. 

"I  tell  you  I  must  have  time,"  repeated  Beaufort,  discon- 
certed. "Besides,  I  have  not  myself  alone  to  look  to,  sir," 
he  added,  with  dignified  emphasis, —  "I  am  a  father!  " 

"This  day  week  I  will  call  on  you  again.  Good  evening, 
Mr.  Beaufort !  "  And  the  man  stretched  out  his  hand  with  an 
air  of  amicable  condescension. 

The  respectable  Mr.  Beaufort  changed  colour,  hesitated, 
and  finally  suffered  two  fingers  to  be  enticed  into  the  grasp  of 
the  visitor,  whom  he  ardently  wished  at  that  bourne  whence 
no  visitor  returns. 

The  stranger  smiled,  stalked  to  the  door,  laid  his  finger 
on  his  lip,  winked  knowingly,  and  vanished,  leaving  Mr. 
Beaufort  a  prey  to  such  feelings  of  uneasiness,  dread,  and 
terror  as  may  be  experienced  by  a  man  whom,  on  some  inch 
or  two  of  slippery  rock,  the  tides  have  suddenly  surrounded. 

He  remained  perfectly  still  for  some  moments;  and  then 
glancing  round  the  dim  and  spacious  room,  his  eyes  took  in  all 
the  evidences  of  luxury  and  wealth  which  it  betrayed.  Above 
the  huge  sideboard,  that  on  festive  days  groaned  beneath  the 
hoarded  weight  of  the  silver  heirlooms  of  the  Beauforts,  hung, 


328  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

in  its  gilded  frame,  a  large  picture  of  the  family  seat,  with 
the  stately  porticos,— the  noble  park,  the  groups  of  deer; 
and  around  the  wall,  interspersed  here  and  there  with  ances- 
tral portraits  of  knight  and  dame,  long  since  gathered  to 
their  rest,  were  placed  masterpieces  of  the  Italian  and  Flem- 
ish art,  which  generation  after  generation  had  slowly  accumu- 
lated, till  the  Beaufort  Collection  had  become  the  theme  of 
connoisseurs  and  the  study  of  young  genius. 

The  still  room,  the  dumb  pictures,  even  the  heavy  side- 
board, seemed  to  gain  voice,  and  speak  to  him  audibly.  He 
thrust  his  hand  into  the  folds  of  his  waistcoat,  and  griped 
his  own  flesh  convulsively;  then,  striding  to  and  fro  the 
apartment,  he  endeavoured  to  re-collect  his  thoughts. 

"I  dare  not  consult  Mrs.  Beaufort,"  he  muttered;  "no,  no, 
—  she  is  a  fool!  Besides,  she  's  not  in  the  way.  Xo  time  to 
lose!     I  will  go  to  Lilburne." 

Scarce  had  that  thought  crossed  him  than  he  hastened  to 
put  it  into  execution.  He  rang  for  his  hat  and  gloves,  and 
sallied  out  on  foot  to  Lord  Lilburne's  house  in  Park  Lane,— 
the  distance  was  short,  and  impatience  has  long  strides. 

He  knew  Lord  Lilburne  was  in  town,  for  that  personage 
loved  London  for  its  own  sake;  and  even  in  September  he 
would  have  said  with  the  old  Duke  of  Queensberry,  when 
some  one  observed  that  London  was  very  empty,  "Yes;  but 
it  is  fuller  than  the  country." 

Mr.  Beaufort  found  Lord  Lilburne  reclined  on  a  sofa  by 
the  open  window  of  his  drawing-room,  beyond  which  the 
early  stars  shone  upon  the  glimmering  trees  and  silver  turf 
of  the  deserted  park.  Unlike  the  simple  dessert  of  his  re- 
spectable brother-in-law,  the  costliest  fruits,  the  richest  wines 
of  France,  graced  the  small  table  placed  beside  his  sofa;  and 
as  the  starch  man  of  forms  and  method  entered  the  room  at 
one  door,  a  rustling  silk  that  vanished  through  the  aperture 
of  another  seemed  to  betray  tokens  of  a  tete-a-tete,  probably 
more  agreeable  to  Lilburne  than  the  one  with  which  only  our 
narrative  is  concerned. 

It  would  have  been  a  curious  study  for  such  men  as  love  to 
gaze  upon  the  dark  and  wily  features  of  human  character  to 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  329 

have  watched  tlie  contrast  between  the  reciter  and  the  lis- 
tener, as  Beaufort,  with  much  circumlocution,  much  affected 
disdain,  and  real  anxiety,  narrated  the  singular  and  ominous 
conversation  between  himself  and  his  visitor. 

The  servant,  in  introducing  Mr.  Beaufort,  had  added  to  the 
light  of  the  room;  and  the  candles  shone  full  on  the  face  and 
form  of  Mr.  Beaufort.  All  about  that  gentleman  was  so  com- 
pletely in  unison  with  the  world's  forms  and  seemings,  that 
there  Avas  something  moral  in  the  very  sight  of  him !  Since 
his  accession  of  fortune  he  had  grown  less  pale  and  less  thin; 
the  angles  in  his  figure  were  filled  up.  On  his  brow  there 
was  no  trace  of  younger  passion.  Ko  able  vice  had  ever 
sharpened  the  expression,  no  exhausting  vice  ever  deepened 
the  lines.  He  was  the  beau-ideal  of  a  county  member, —  so 
sleek,  so  staid,  so  business-like;  yet  so  clean,  so  neat,  so 
much  the  gentleman.  And  now  there  was  a  kind  of  pathos 
in  his  gray  hairs,  his  nervous  smile,  his  agitated  hands,  his 
quick  and  uneasy  transition  of  posture,  the  tremble  of  his 
voice.  He  would  have  appeared  to  those  who  saw  but  heard 
not  The  Good  Man  in  trouble.  Cold,  motionless,  speechless, 
seemingly  apathetic,  but  in  truth  observant,  still  reclined  on 
the  sofa,  his  head  thrown  back,  but  one  eye  fixed  on  his  com- 
panion, his  hands  clasped  before  him.  Lord  Lilburne  listened; 
and  in  that  repose,  about  his  face,  even  about  his  person, 
might  be  read  the  history  of  how  different  a  life  and  charac- 
ter! What  native  acuteness  in  the  stealthy  eye!  What 
hardened  resolve  in  the  full  nostril  and  firm  lips !  What  sar- 
donic contempt  for  all  things  in  the  intricate  lines  about  the 
mouth!  What  animal  enjoyment  of  all  things  so  despised  in 
that  delicate  nervous  system,  which,  combined  with  original 
vigour  of  constitution,  yet  betrayed  itself  in  the  veins  on  the 
hands  and  temples,  the  occasional  quiver  of  the  upper  lip! 
His  was  the  frame  above  all  others  the  most  alive  to  pleasure, 
—  deep-chested,  compact,  sinewy,  but  thin  to  leanness,  deli- 
cate in  its  texture  and  extremities  almost  to  effeminacy.  The 
indifference  of  the  posture,  the  very  habit  of  the  dress,  —  not 
slovenly,  indeed,  but  easy,  loose,  careless, —  seemed  to  speak 
of  the  man's  manner  of  thought  and  life,  his  profound  disdain 
of  externals. 


330  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

Not  till  Beaufort  had  concluded  did  Lord  Lilburne  change 
his  position  or  open  his  lips ;  and  then,  turning  to  his  brother- 
in-law  his  calm  face,  he  said  dryly, — 

"I  always  thought  your  brother  had  married  that  woman; 
he  was  the  sort  of  man  to  do  it.  Besides,  why  should  she 
have  gone  to  law  without  a  vestige  of  proof,  unless  she  was 
convinced  of  her  rights?  Imposture  never  proceeds  without 
some  evidence;  innocence,  like  a  fool  as  it  is,  fancies  it  has 
only  to  speak  to  be  believed.  But  there  is  no  cause  for 
alarm." 

"No  cause!     And  yet  you  think  there  was  a  marriage." 

"It  is  quite  clear,"  continued  Lilburne,  without  heeding 
this  interruption,  "that  the  man,  whatever  his  evidence,  has 
not  got  sufficient  proofs.  If  he  had,  he  would  go  to  the 
young  men  rather  than  you.  It  is  evident  that  they  would 
promise  infinitely  larger  rewards  than  he  could  expect  from 
yourself.  Men  are  always  more  generous  with  what  they  ex- 
pect than  with  what  they  have.  All  rogues  know  this. 
'Tis  the  way  Jews  and  usurers  thrive  upon  heirs  rather 
than  possessors ;  'tis  the  philosophy  of  ^josi-oi«Vs.  I  dare  say 
the  man  has  found  out  the  real  witness  of  the  marriage,  but 
ascertained  also  that  the  testimony  of  that  witness  would  not 
suffice  to  dispossess  you.  He  might  be  discredited, —  rich 
men  have  a  way  sometimes  of  discrediting  poor  witnesses. 
Mind,  he  says  nothing  of  the  lost  copy  of  the  register, —  what- 
ever may  be  the  value  of  that  document,  which  I  am  not  law3'er 
enough  to  say, —  of  any  letters  of  your  brother  avowing  the 
marriage.  Consider,  the  register  itself  is  destroyed,  the 
clergyman  dead.     Pooh!  make  yourself  easy." 

"True,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  much  comforted;  "what  a 
memory  you  have !  " 

"Naturally.  Your  wife  is  my  sister  —  I  hate  poor  relations 
—  and  I  was  therefore  much  interested  in  your  accession  and 
your  lawsuit.  No,  you  may  feel  at  rest  on  this  matter,  so  far 
as  a  successful  lawsuit  is  concerned.  The  next  question  is, 
Will  you  have  a  lawsuit  at  all;  and  is  it  worth  while  buying 
this  fellow?     That  I  can't  say  unless  I  see  him  myself." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  would !  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  331 

"Very  willingly:  'tis  a  sort  of  thing  I  like;  I'm  fond  of 
dealing  with  rogues,— it  amuses  me.  This  day  week?  I'll 
be  at  your  house,— your  proxy  ;  I  shall  do  better  than  Black- 
well.  And  since  you  say  you  are  wanted  at  the  Lakes,  go 
down,  and  leave  all  to  me." 

"A  thousand  thanks.  I  can't  say  how  grateful  I  am.  You 
certainly  are  the  kindest  and  cleverest  person  in  the  world." 

"You  can't  think  worse  of  the  world's  cleverness  and  kind- 
ness than  I  do,"  was  Lilburne's  rather  ambiguous  answer  to 
the  compliment.  "But  why  does  my  sister  want  to  see 
you?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot!  Here  is  her  letter.  I  was  going  to  ask 
your  advice  in  this  too." 

Lord  Lilburne  took  the  letter,  and  glanced  over  it  with  the 
rapid  eye  of  a  man  accustomed  to  seize  in  everything  the  main 
gist  and  pith. 

"An  offer  to  my  pretty  niece,  Mr.  Spencer,  requires  no  for- 
tune, his  uncle  will  settle  ail  his  own  — poor  silly  old  man! 
All !  Why  that 's  only  £1,000  a  year.  You  don't  think  much 
of  this,  eh?    How  my  sister  can  even  ask  you  about  it  puzzles 

me." 

"Why,  you  see,  Lilburne,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  rather  em- 
barrassed, "there  is  no  question  of  fortune,— nothing  to  go 
out  of  the  family;  and,  really,  Arthur  is  so  expensive,  and  if 
she  were  to  marry  well,  I  could  not  give  her  less  than  fifteen 
or  twenty  thousand  pounds." 

"  Aha !  I  see !  Every  man  to  his  taste ;  here  a  daughter, 
there  a  dowry.  You  are  devilish  fond  of  money,  Beaufort. 
Any  pleasure  in  avarice,  eh?" 

Mr.  Beaufort  coloured  very  much  at  the  remark  and  the 
question,   and,  forcing  a  smile,   said, — 

"You  are  severe.  But  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be 
father  to  a  young  man." 

"Then  a  great  many  young  women  have  told  me  sad  fibs! 
But  you  are  right  in  yotir  sense  of  the  phrase.  Ko,  I  never 
had  an  heir  apparent,  thank  Heaven!  No  children  imposed 
upon  me  by  law,  —  natural  enemies,  to  count  the  years  be- 
tween the  bells  that  ring  for  their  majority,  and  those  that 


332  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

will  toll  for  my  decease.  It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  have  a 
brother  and  a  sister,  that  my  brother's  son  will  inherit  my 
estates,  and  that,  in  the  meantime,  he  grudges  me  every  tick 
in  that  clock.  What  then?  If  he  had  been  my  uncle,  I  had 
done  the  same.  Meanwhile,  I  see  as  little  of  him  as  good 
breeding  will  permit.  On  the  face  of  a  rich  man's  heir  is 
written  the  rich  man's  viemento  mori!  But  revenons  a  nos 
moutons.  Yes,  if  you  give  your  daughter  no  fortune,  your 
death  will  be  so  much  the  more  profitable  to  Arthur!" 

''Eeally,  you  take  such  a  very  odd  view  of  the  matter," 
said  Mr.  Beaufort,  exceedingly  shocked;  "but  I  see  you  don't 
like  the  marriage;  perhaps  you  are  right." 

"Indeed,  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter;  I  never  interfere 
between  father  and  children.  If  I  had  children  myself,  I 
will,  however,  tell  you,  for  your  comfort,  that  they  might 
marry  exactly  as  they  pleased, —  I  would  never  thwart  them. 
I  should  be  too  happy  to  get  them  out  of  my  way.  If  they 
married  well,  one  would  have  all  the  credit ;  if  ill,  one  would 
have  an  excuse  to  disown  them.  As  I  said  before,  I  dislike 
poor  relations.  Though  if  Camilla  lives  at  the  Lakes  when 
she  is  married,  it  is  but  a  letter  now  and  then;  and  that's 
your  wife's  trouble,  not  yours.  But,  Spencer, —  what  Spencer? 
What  family?  Was  there  not  a  Mr,  Spencer  who  lived  at 
Winandermere,   who  —  " 

"Who  went  with  us  in  search  of  these  boys, — to  be  sure. 
Very  likely  the  same, — nay,  he  must  be  so.  I  thought  so  at 
the  first." 

"  Go  down  to  the  Lakes  to-morrow.  You  may  hear  some- 
thing about  your  nephews -^^^  at  that  word  Mr,  Beaufort 
winced.     "'Tis  well  to  be  forearmed." 

"Many  thanks  for  all  your  counsel,"  said  Beaiifort,  rising, 
and  glad  to  escape;  for  though  both  he  and  his  wife  held  the 
advice  of  Lord  Lilburne  in  the  highest  reverence,  they  always 
smarted  beneath  the  quiet  and  careless  stings  which  accom- 
panied the  honey.  Lord  Lilburne  was  singular  in  this, —  he 
would  give  to  any  one  who  asked  it,  but  especially  a  relation, 
the  best  advice  in  his  power;  and  none  gave  better, — that  is, 
more  worldly  advice.     Thus,  without  the  least  benevolence, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  333 

he  was  often  of  the  greatest  service ;  biit  he  could  not  help 
mixing  up  the  draught  with  as  much  aloes  and  bitter-apple  as 
possible.  His  intellect  delighted  in  exhibiting  itself  even 
gratuitously;  his  heart  equally  delighted  in  that  only  cruelty 
which  polished  life  leaves  to  its  tyrants  towards  their  equals, 
—  thrusting  pins  into  the  feelings  and  breaking  self-love 
upon  the  wheel.  But  just  as  Mr.  Beaufort  had  drawn  on  his 
gloves  and  gained  the  doorway,  a  thought  seemed  to  strike 
Lord  Lilburne, — 

"By  the  by,"  he  said,  "you  understand  that  when  I  prom- 
ised I  would  try  and  settle  the  matter  for  you,  I  only  meant 
that  I  would  learn  the  exact  causes  you  have  for  alarm  on  the 
one  hand  or  for  a  compromise  with  this  fellow  on  the  other. 
If  the  last  be  advisable  you  are  aware  that  I  cannot  interfere. 
I  might  get  into  a  scrape;  and  Beaufort  Court  is  not  my 
property." 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"  I  am  plain  enough,  too.  If  there  is  money  to  be  given  it 
is  given  in  order  to  defeat  what  is  called  justice, — to  keep 
these  nephews  of  yours  out  of  their  inheritance.  Now, 
should  this  ever  come  to  light,  it  would  have  an  ugly  appear- 
ance. They  who  risk  the  blame  must  be  the  persons  who 
possess  the  estate." 

"  If  you  think  it  dishonourable  or  dishonest  —  "  said 
Beaufort,   irresolutely. 

"  I !  I  never  can  advise  as  to  the  feelings ;  I  can  only  ad- 
vise as  to  the  policy.  If  you  don't  think  there  ever  was  a 
marriage,  it  may,  still,  be  honest  in  you  to  prevent  the  bore 
of  a  lawsuit." 

"But  if  he  can  prove  to  me  that  they  were  married?" 

"Pooh!"  said  Lilburne,  raising  his  eyebrows  with  a  slight 
expression  of  contemptuous  impatience;  "it  rests  on  yourself 
whether  or  not  he  lorove  it  to  your  satisfaction  !  For  my  part, 
as  a  third  person,  I  am  persuaded  the  marriage  did  take 
place;  but  if  I  had  Beaufort  Court,  my  convictions  would  be 
all  the  other  way.  You  understand.  I  am  too  happy  to 
serve  you.  But  no  man  can  be  expected  to  jeopardize  his 
character  or  coquet  with  the  law,  unless  it  be  for  his  own  in- 


334  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

dividual  interest.  Then,  of  course,  he  must  judge  for  him- 
self. Adieu!  I  expect  some  friends  —  foreigners,  Carlists  — 
to  whist.     You  won't  join  them?  " 

"  I  never  play,  you  know.  You  will  write  to  me  at  Winan- 
dermere :  and  at  all  events,  you  will  keep  off  the  man  till  I 
return?" 

"Certainly." 

Beaufort,  whom  the  latter  part  of  the  conversation  had 
comforted  far  less  than  the  former,  hesitated,  and  turned  the 
door-handle  three  or  four  times;  but  glancing  towards  his 
brother-in-law,  he  saw  in  that  cold  face  so  little  sympathy  in 
the  struggle  between  interest  and  conscience,  that  he  judged 
it  best  to  Avithdraw  at  once. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Lilburne  summoned  his  valet,  who 
had  lived  with  him  many  years,  and  who  was  his  confidant  in 
all  the  adventurous  gallantries  with  which  he  still  enlivened 
the  autumn  of  his  life. 

"Dykeman,"  said  he,  "you  have  let  out  that  lad}^?" 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"I  am  not  at  home  if  she  calls  again.  She  is  stupid;  she 
cannot  get  the  girl  to  come  to  her  again.  I  shall  trust  you 
with  an  adventure,  Dykeman, —  an  adventure  that  will  re- 
mind you  of  our.  young  days,  man.  This  charming  creature 
—  I  tell  you  she  is  irresistible, —  her  very  oddities  bewitch 
me.  You  must  —  well,  you  look  uneasy.  What  would  you 
say?  " 

"  My  lord,  I  have  found  out  more  about  her  —  and  —  and  —  " 

"Well,  well." 

The  valet  drew  near  and  whispered  something  in  his  mas- 
ter's  ear. 

"They  are  idiots  who  say  it,  then,"  answered  Lilburne. 

"And,"  faltered  the  man,  with  the  shame  of  humanity  on 
his  face,  "she  is  not  worthy  your  lordship's  notice,  —  a 
poor  —  " 

"Yes,  I  know  she  is  poor;  and  for  that  reason,  there  can 
be  no  difficulty,  if  the  thing  is  properly  managed.  You 
never,  perhaps,  heard  of  a  certain  Philip,  king  of  Macedon ; 
but  I  will  tell  you  what  he  once  said,  as  Avell  as  I  can  re- 


mGRT  AND  MORNING.  335 

member  it:  'Lead  an  ass  with  a  pannier  of  gold;  send  the  ass 
through  the  gates  of  a  city,  and  all  the  sentinels  will  run 
away.'  Poor!  where  there  is  love,  there  is  charity  also, 
Dykeman.     Besides  —  " 

Here  Lilburne's  countenance  assumed  a  sudden  aspect  of 
dark  and  angry  passion, —  he  broke  off  abruptly,  rose,  and 
paced  the  room,  muttering  to  himself.  Suddenly  he  stopped, 
and  put  his  hand  to  his  hip,  as  an  expression  of  pain  again 
altered  the  character  of  his  face. 

"The  limb  pains  me  still!  Dykeman,  I  was  scarce  — 
twenty -one  —  when  I  became  a  cripple  for  life."  He  paused, 
drew  a  long  breath,  smiled,  rubbed  his  hands  gently,  and 
added,  "Never  fear!  you  shall  be  the  ass;  and  thus  Philip  of 
Macedon  begins  to  fill  the  pannier."  And  he  tossed  his  purse 
into  the  hands  of  the  valet,  whose  face  seemed  to  lose  its  anx- 
ious embarrassment  at  the  touch  of  the  gold.  Lilburne  glanced 
at  him  with  a  quiet  sneer:  "Go!  I  will  give  you  my  orders 
when  I  undress." 

"Yes!"  he  repeated  to  himself,  "the  limb  pains  me  still. 
But  he  died! — shot  as  a  man  would  shoot  a  jay  or  a 
polecat!  I  have  the  newspaper  still  in  that  drawer.  He 
died  an  outcast,  a  felon,  a  murderer!  And  I  blasted  his 
name,  and  I  seduced  his  mistress,  and  I — am  John  Lord 
Lilburne ! " 

About  ten  o'clock,  some  half-a-dozen  of  those  gay  lovers  of 
London,  who,  like  Lilburne,  remain  faithful  to  its  charms 
when  more  vulgar  worshippers  desert  its  sunburnt  streets  — 
mostly  single  men,  mostly  men  of  middle  age  —  dropped  in ; 
and  soon  after  came  three  or  four  high-born  foreigners,  who 
had  followed  into  England  the  exile  of  the  unfortunate 
'Charles  X.  Their  looks,  at  once  proud  and  sad,  their  mus- 
taches curled  downwards,  their  beards  permitted  to  grow, 
made  at  first  a  strong  contrast  with  the  smooth  gay  English- 
men. But  Lilburne,  who  was  fond  of  French  society,  and 
who,  when  he  pleased,  could  be  courteous  and  agreeable,  soon 
placed  the  exiles  at  their  ease;  and  in  the  excitement  of  high 
play,  all  differences  of  mood  and  humour  speedily  vanished. 
Morning  was  in  the  skies  before  they  sat  down  to  supper. 


336  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

"  You  have  been  very  fortunate  to-night,  milord, "  said  one 
of  the  Frenchmen,  Avith  an  envious  tone  of  congratulation. 

"  But,  indeed, "  said  another,  who,  having  been  several  times 
his  host's  partner,  had  won  largely,  "you  are  the  finest 
player,   milord,   I  ever  encountered." 

"  Always   excepting   M.   Deschapelles  and , "    replied 

Lilburne,  indifferently;  and  turning  the  conversation,  he 
asked  one  of  the  guests  why  he  had  not  introduced  him  to  a 
French  officer  of  merit  and  distinction, —  "With  whom,"  said 
Lord  Lilburne,  "  I  understand  that  you  are  intimate,  and  of 
whom  I  hear  your  countrymen  very  often  sioeak." 

"  You  mean  De  Vaudemont.  Poor  fellow !  "  said  a  middle- 
aged  Frenchman,  of  a  graver  appearance  than  the  rest. 

"But  why  'poor  fellow! '  Monsieur  de  Liancourt?" 

"  He  was  rising  so  high  before  the  revolution.  There  was 
not  a  braver  officer  in  the  army;  but  he  is  but  a  soldier  of 
fortune,  and  his  career  is  closed." 

"Till  the  Bourbons  return,"  said  another  Carlist,  playing 
with  his  mustache. 

"You  will  really  honour  me  much  by  introducing  me  to 
him,"  said  Lord  Lilburne.  "De  Vaudemont, —  it  is  a  good 
name;    perhaps,  too,  he  plays  at  whist." 

"  But,  • '  observed  one  of  the  Frenchmen,  "  I  am  by  no  means 
sure  that  he  has  the  best  right  in  the  world  to  the  name. 
'T  is  a  strange  story." 

"May  I  hear  it? "  asked  the  host. 

"  Certainly.  It  is  briefly  this :  There  was  an  old  Vicomte 
de  Vaudemont  about  Paris;  of  good  birth,  but  extremely 
poor, —  a  mauvais  sujet.  He  had  already  had  two  wives,  and 
run  through  their  fortunes.  Being  old  and  ugly,  and  men 
who  survive  two  wives  having  a  bad  reputation  among  mar-* 
riageable  ladies  at  Paris,  he  found  it  difficult  to  get  a  third. 
Despairing  of  the  noblesse  he  went  among  the  bourgeoisie  with 
that  hope.  His  family  were  kept  in  perpetual  fear  of  a 
ridiculous  mesalliance.  Among  these  relations  was  Madame 
de  Merville,  whom  you  may  have  heard  of." 

"Madame  de  Merville!  Ah,  yes!  Handsome,  was  she 
not?  " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  337 

"It  is  true.  Madame  de  Merville,  whose  failing  was  pride, 
was  known  more  than  once  to  have  bought  off  the  matrimonial 
inclinations  of  the  amorous  vicomte.  Suddenly  there  ap- 
peared in  her  circles  a  very  handsome  young  man.  He  was 
presented  formally  to  her  friends  as  the  son  of  the  Vicomte 
de  Vaudemont  by  his  second  marriage  with  an  English  lady, 
brought  up  in  England  and  now  for  the  first  time  publicly 
acknowledged.     Some  scandal  was  circulated  —  " 

"Sir,"  interrupted  M.  de  Liancourt,  very  gravely,  "the 
scandal  was  such  as  all  honourable  men  must  stigmatize 
and  despise, —  it  was  only  to  be  traced  to  some  lying  lackey, 
—  a  scandal  that  the  young  man  was  already  the  lover  of  a 
woman  of  stainless  reputation  the  very  first  day  that  he  en- 
tered Paris!  I  answer  for  the  falsity  of  that  report.  But 
that  report  I  own  was  one  that  decided  not  only  Madame  de 
Merville,  who  was  a  sensitive  —  too  sensitive  —  a  person,  but 
my  friend  young  Vaudemont,  to  a  marriage  from  the  pecuniary 
advantages  of  which  he  was  too  high  spirited  not  to  shrink," 

"  Well, "  said  Lord  Lilburne,  "  then  this  young  De  Vaude- 
mont married  Madame  de  Merville?" 

"No,"  said  Liancourt  somewhat  sadly,  "it  was  not  so  de- 
creed; for  Vaudemont,  with  a  feeling  which  belongs  to  a 
gentleman,  and  which  I  honour,  while  deeply  and  gratefully 
attached  to  Madame  de  Merville,  desired  that  he  might  first 
win  for  himself  some  honourable  distinction  before  he  claimed 
a  hand  to  which  men  of  fortunes  so  much  higher  had  aspired 
in  vain.  I  am  not  ashamed,"  he  added,  after  a  slight  pause, 
"to  say  that  I  had  been  one  of  the  rejected  suitors,  and  that 
I  still  revere  the  memory  of  Eugenie  de  Merville.  The  young 
man,  therefore,  was  to  have  entered  my  regiment.  Before, 
however,  he  had  joined  it,  and  while  jet  in  the  full  flush  of  a 
young  man's  love  for  a  woman  formed  to  excite  the  strongest 
attachment,  she  —  she  —  "  The  Frenchman's  voice  trembled, 
and  he  resumed  with  affected  composure,  "Madame  de 
]\Ierville,  who  had  the  best  and  kindest  heart  that  ever  beat 
in  a  human  breast,  learned  one  day  that  there  was  a  poor 
widow  in  the  garret  of  the  hotel  she  inhabited  who  was  dan- 
gerously ill,  without  medicine  and  without  food,  having  lost 


338  NIGHT  AND  MORNIXG. 

lier  only  friend  and  supporter  in  her  husband  some  time  be- 
fore. In  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  INIadame  de  jMerville 
herself  attended  this  widow,  caught  the  fever  that  preyed 
upon  her,  was  confined  to  her  bed  ten  days,  and  died  as  she 
had  lived,  in  serving  others  and  forgetting  self.  And  so 
much,  sir,   for  the  scandal  you  spoke  of  I" 

"A  warning,"  observed  Lord  Lilburne,  "against  trifling 
with  one's  health  by  that  vanity  of  parading  a  kind  heart 
which  is  called  charity.  If  charity,  mon  cher,  begins  at 
home,   it  is  in  the  drawing-room,   not  the  garret !  " 

The  Frenchman  looked  at  his  host  in  some  disdain,  bit  his 
lip,  and  was  silent. 

"But  still,"  resumed  Lord  Lilburne, —  "still  it  is  so  proba- 
ble that  your  old  vicomte  had  a  son,  and  I  can  so  perfectly 
understand  why  he  did  not  wish  to  be  embarrassed  with  him 
as  long  as  he  could  help  it,  that  I  do  not  understand  why 
there  should  be  any  doubt  of  the  younger  De  Yaudemont's 
parentage." 

"Because,"  said  the  Frenchman  who  had  first  commenced 
the  narrative, —  "because  the  young  man  refused  to  take  the 
legal  steps  to  proclaim  his  birth  and  naturalize  himself  a 
Frenchman;  because,  no  sooner  was  Madame  de  Merville 
dead,  than  he  forsook  the  father  he  had  so  newly  discovered, 
forsook  France,  and  entered  with  some  other  officers,  under 

the  brave ,  in  the  service  of  one  of  the  native  princes  of 

India." 

"But  perhaps  he  was  poor,"  observed  Lord  Lilburne.  "A 
father  is  a  very  good  thing  and  a  country  is  a  very  good 
thing,  but  still  a  man  must  have  money;  and  if  your  father 
does  not  do  much  for  you,  somehow  or  other,  your  country 
generally  follows  his  example." 

"My  lord,"  said  Liancourt,  "my  friend  here  has  forgotten 
to  say  that  Madame  de  Merville  had  by  deed  of  gift  (though 
unknown  to  her  lover),  before  her  death,  made  over  to  young 
Vaudemont  the  bulk  of  her  fortune;  and  that  when  he  was 
informed  of  this  donation  after  her  decease,  and  sufficiently 
recovered  from  the  stupor  of  his  grief,  he  summoned  her 
relations  round  him,  delared  that  her  memory  was  too  dear  to 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING.  339 

him  for  wealth  to  console  him  for  her  loss,  and  reserving  to 
himself  but  a  modest  and  bare  sufficiency  for  the  common 
necessaries  of  a  gentleman,  he  divided  the  rest  amongst  them, 
and  repaired  to  the  East, — ■  not  only  to  conquer  his  sorrow  by 
the  novelty  and  stir  of  an  exciting  life,  but  to  carve  out  with 
his  own  hand  the  reputation  of  an  honourable  and  brave  man. 
My  friend  remembered  tlie  scandal  long  buried,  —  he  forgot 
the  generous  action." 

''Your  friend,  you  see,  my  dear  Monsieur  de  Liancourt," 
remarked  Lilburne,  "is  more  a  man  of  the  world  than  you 
are !  " 

"And  I  was  just  going  to  observe,"  said  the  friend  thus  re- 
ferred to,  "  that  that  very  action  seemed  to  confirm  the  rumour 
that  there  had  been  some  little  manoeuvring  as  to  this  unex- 
pected addition  to  the  name  of  De  Vaudemout;  for  if  himself 
related  to  Madame  de  Merville,  why  have  such  scruples  to 
receive  her  gift?" 

"A  very  shrewd  remark,"  said  Lord  Lilburne,  looking  with 
some  respect  at  the  speaker ;  "  and  I  own  that  it  is  a  very  un- 
accountable proceeding,  and  one  of  which  I  don't  think  you 
or  I  would  ever  have  been  guilty.  Well,  and  the  old 
Vicomte?" 

"  Did  not  live  long  !  "  said  the  Frenchman,  evidently  grat- 
ified by  his  host's  compliment,  while  Liancourt  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair  in  grave  displeasvire.  "  The  young  man  re- 
mained some  years  in  India,  and  when  he  returned  to  Paris, 
our  friend  here,  M.  de  Liancourt  (then  in  favour  with  Charles 
X.)  and  Madame  de  Merville's  relations  took  him  up.  He 
had  already  acquired  a  reputation  in  this  foreign  service,  and 
he  obtained  a  place  at  the  court,  and  a  commission  in  the 
king's  guards.  I  allow  that  he  would  certainly  have  made  a 
career,  had  it  not  been  for  the  Three  Days.  As  it  is,  you  see 
him  in  London,  like  the  rest  of  us,  an  exile." 

"  And,  I  suppose,  without  a  sow." 

"  No,  I  believe  that  he  had  still  saved,  and  even  augmented, 
in  India,  the  portion  he  allotted  to  himself  from  Madame  de 
Merville's  bequest." 

"  And  if  he  don't  play  whist,  he  ought  to  play  it,"  said 


340  NIGHT   AXD  MORXING. 

Lilburne.  "You  have  roused  my  curiosity;  I  liope  you  will 
let  me  make  his  acquaiiitauce,  Monsieur  de  Liaucourt.  I 
am  no  politician,  but  allow  me  to  propose  this  toast,  'Success 
to  those  who  have  the  wit  to  plan,  and  the  strength  to  exe- 
cute,'—in  other  words,  'the  Eight  Divine!'" 
Soon  afterwards  the  guests  retired. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Ros.     Happily,  he  's  the  second  time  come  to  them.  — Hamlet. 

It  was  the  evening  after  that  in  which  the  conversations 
recorded  in   our  last   chapter  were  held,  —  evening  in  the 

quiet  suburb  of  H .     The  desertion  and  silence  of  the 

metropolis  in  September  had  extended  to  its  neighbouring 
hamlets,  —  a  village  in  the  heart  of  the  country  could  scarcely 
have  seemed  more  still;  the  lamps  were  lighted,  many  of  the 
shops  already  closed;  a  few  of  the  sober  couples  and  retired 
spinsters  of  the  place  might,  here  and  there,  be  seen  slowly 
wandering  homeward  after  their  evening  walk;  two  or  three 
dogs,  in  spite  of  the  prohibitions  of  the  magistrates  placarded 
on  the  walls,  —  manifestoes  which  threatened  with  death  the 
dogs,  and  predicted  more  than  ordinary  madness  to  the  public, 
—  were  playing  in  the  main  road,  disturbed  from  time  to  time 
as  the  slow  coach,  plying  between  the  city  and  the  suburb, 
crawled  along  the  thoroughfare,  or  as  the  brisk  mails  whirled 
rapidly  by,  announced  by  the  cloudy  dust  and  the  guard's 
lively  horn.  Gradually  even  these  evidences  of  life  ceased; 
the  saunterers  disappeared,  the  mails  had  passed,  the  dogs 
gave  place  to  the  later  and  more  stealthy  perambulations  of 
their  feline  successors,  "who  love  the  moon."  At  unfrequent 
intervals,  the  more  important  shops— the  linen-drapers',  the 
chemists',  and  the  gin-palace  —  still  poured  out  across  the 
shadowy  road  their  streams  of  light  from  windows  yet  un- 
closed; but  with  these  exceptions,  the  business  of  the  place 
stood  still. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  341 

At  tliis  time  there  emerged  from  a  milliner's  house  —  shop, 
to  outward  apjiearauce,  it  was  not,  evincing  its  gentility  and 
its  degree  above  the  Capelocracy,  to  use  a  certain  classical 
neologism,  by  a  brass  plate  on  an  oak  door,  whereon  was 
graven,  "Miss  Semper,  Milliner  and  Dressmaker,  from 
Madame  Devy,"  —  at  this  time,  I  say,  and  from  this  house 
there  emerged  the  light  and  graceful  form  of  a  young  female. 
She  held  in  her  left  hand  a  little  basket,  of  the  contents  of 
which  (for  it  was  empty)  she  had  apparently  just  disposed; 
and  as  she  stepped  across  the  road,  the  lamplight  fell  on  a 
face  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  and  characterized  by  an 
expression  of  child-like  innocence  and  candour.  It  was  a 
face  regularly  and  exquisitely  lovely,  yet  something  there 
was  in  the  aspect  that  saddened  you,  — you  knew  not  why, 
for  it  was  not  sad  itself;  on  the  contrary,  the  lips  smiled  and 
the  eyes  sparkled.  As  she  now  glided  along  the  shadowy 
street  with  a  light,  quick  step,  a  man,  who  had  hitherto  been 
concealed  by  the  portico  of  an  attorney's  house,  advanced 
stealthily,  and  followed  her  at  a  little  distance.  Unconscious 
that  she  was  dogged,  and  seemingly  fearless  of  all  danger,  the 
girl  went  lightly  on,  swinging  her  basket  playfully  to  and  fro, 
and  chanting,  in  a  low  but  musical  tone,  some  verses  that 
seemed  rather  to  belong  to  the  nursery  than  to  that  age  which 
the  fair  singer  had  attained. 

As  she  came  to  an  angle  which"  the  main  street  formed  with 
a  lane,  narrow  and  partially  lighted,  a  policeman  stationed 
there  looked  hard  at  her,  and  then  touched  his  hat  with  an 
air  of  respect,  in  which  there  seemed  also  a  little  of  compassion. 

"Good  night  to  you,"  said  the  girl,  passing  him,  and  with  a 
frank,  gay  tone. 

"Shall  I  attend  you  home.  Miss?"  said  the  man. 

"  What  for?  I  am  very  well !  "  answered  the  young  woman, 
with  an  accent  and  look  of  innocent  surprise. 

Just  at  this  time  the  man,  who  had  hitherto  followed  her, 
gained  the  spot,  and  turned  down  the  lane. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  policeman;  "but  it  is  getting  dark. 
Miss." 

"So  it  is  every  night  when  I  walk  home,  unless  there's  a 


342  NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

moon.  Good  by. — The  moon,"  she  repeated  to  herself,  as 
she  walked  on,  "  I  used  to  be  afraid  of  the  moon  when  I  was 
a  little  child ; "  and  then,  after  a  pause,  she  murmured,  in  a 
low  chant,  — 

" '  The  moon  she  is  a  wandering  ghost, 
That  walks  in  penance  nightly  ; 
How  sad  she  is,  that  wandering  moon. 
For  all  she  shines  so  brightly ! 

"  '  I  watched  her  eyes  when  I  was  young 
Until  they  turned  my  brain, 
And  now  I  often  weep  to  think 
'T  will  ne'er  be  right  again,'  " 

As  the  murmur  of  these  words  died  at  a  distance  down  the 
lane  in  which  the  girl  had  disappeared,  the  policeman,  who 
had  paused  to  listen,  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  said, 
while  he  moved  on,  — 

"Poor  thing!  they  should  not  let  her  always  ^o  about  by 
herself;  and  yet  who  would  harm  her?" 

Meanwhile  the  girl  proceeded  along  the  lane,  which  was 
skirted  by  small  but  not  mean  houses,  till  it  terminated  in  a 
cross-stile  that  admitted  into  a  churchyard.  Here  hung  the 
last  lamp  in  the  path,  and  a  few  dim  stars  broke  palely  over 
the  long  grass  and  scattered  gravestones,  without  piercing  the 
deep  shadow  which  the  church  threw  over  a  large  portion  of 
the  sacred  ground.  Just  as  she  passed  the  stile,  the  man 
whom  we  have  before  noticed,  and  who  had  been  leaning  as  if 
waiting  for  some  one  against  the  pales,  approached,  and  said 
gently,  — 

"Ah,  Miss!  it  is  a  lone  place  for  one  so  beautiful  as  you 
are  to  be  alone.     You  ought  never  to  be  on  foot." 

The  girl  stopped,  and  looked  full,  but  without  any  alarm  in 
her  eyes,  into  the  man's  face. 

"  Go  away !  "  she  said,  with  a  half-peevish,  half -kindly  tone 
of  command.     "I  don't  know  you." 

"But  I  have  been  sent  to  speak  to  you  by  one  who  does 
know  you.  Miss, —one  who  loves  you  to  distraction;  he  has 
seen  you  before  at  Mrs.  West's.  He  is  so  grieved  to  think 
you  should  walk  — you  ought,  he  says,  to  have  every  luxury 


NIGHT   AND   xMORNIXG.  343 

—  that  lie  has  sent  his  carriage  for  you.  It  is  on  the  other 
side  of  the  yard.  Do  come  now;"  and  he  hxid  his  hand, 
though  very  lightly,  on  her  arm. 

"At  Mrs.  West's?"  she  said;  and,  for  the  first  time,  her 
voice  and  look  showed  fear.  "  Go  away  directly !  How  dare 
you  touch  me !  " 

"But,  my  dear  Miss,  you  have  no  idea  how  my  employer 
loves  you,  and  how  rich  he  is.  See,  he  has  sent  you  all  this 
money;  it  is  gold,  — real  gold.  You  may  have  what  you  like, 
if  you  will  but  come.     Now,  don't  be  silly.  Miss." 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  hut  Avith  a  sudden  spring  passed 
the  man,  and  ran  lightly  and  rapidly  along  the  path,  in  an 
opposite  direction  from  that  to  which  the  tempter  had  pointed 
when  inviting  her  to  the  carriage.  The  man,  surprised  but 
not  baffled,  reached  her  in  an  instant,  and  caught  hold  of  her 
dress. 

"Stay!  you  must,  you  must!"  he  said  threateningly;  and 
loosening  his  grasp  on  her  shawl,  he  threw  his  arm  round  her 
waist. 

"Don't!"  cried  the  girl,  pleadingly,  and  apparently  sub- 
dued, turning  her  fair,  soft  face  upon  her  pursuer,  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands.  "Be  quiet!  Fanny  is  silly!  No  one  is  ever 
rude  to  poor  Fanny !  " 

"And  no  one  will  be  rude  to  you,  Miss,"  said  the  man, 
apparently  touched;  "but  I  dare  not  go  without  you.  You 
don't  know  what  you  refuse.  Come;"  and  he  attempted 
gently  to  draw  her  back. 

"  No,  no  1 "  said  the  girl,  changing  from  supplication  to  anger, 
and  raising  her  voice  into  a  loud  shriek,  "no!  I  will  —  " 

"Nay,  then,"  interrupted  the  man,  looking  round  anx- 
iously; and  with  a  quick  and  dexterous  movement  he  threw 
a  large  handkerchief  over  her  face,  and  as  he  held  it  fast  to 
her  lips  with  one  hand,  he  lifted  her  from  the  ground.  Still 
violently  struggling,  the  girl  contrived  to  remove  the  handker- 
chief, and  once  more  her  shriek  of  terror  rang  through  the  vio- 
lated sanctuary. 

At  that  instant  a  loud  deep  voice  was  heard,  "Who  calls?" 
and  a  tall  figure  seemed  to  rise  as  from  the  grave  itself,  and 


344  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

emerge  from  the  shadow  of  the  church.  A  moment  more, 
and  a  strong  gripe  was  laid  on  the  shoukler  of  the  ravisher. 
"What  is  this?  On  God's  ground,  too!  Release  her, 
wretch ! " 

The  man,  trembling,  half  with  superstitious  half  with 
bodily  fear,  let  go  his  captive,  who  fell  at  once  at  the  knees 
of  her  deliverer.  "Don't  you  hurt  me  too,"  she  said,  as  the 
tears  rolled  down  her  eyes.  "  I  am  a  good  girl,  —  and  my 
grandfather's  blind." 

The  stranger  bent  down  and  raised  her;  then  looking  round 
for  the  assailant  with  an  eye  whose  dark  lire  shone  through 
the  gloom,  he  perceived  the  coward  stealing  oft'.  He  disdained 
to  pursue. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  he,  with  that  voice  which  the  strong 
assume  to  the  weak,  the  man  to  some  wounded  infant,  — the 
voice  of  tender  superiority  and  compassion,  "there  is  no  cause 
for  fear  now.  Be  soothed.  Do  you  live  near?  Shall  I  see 
you  home?" 

"Thank  you!  That's  kind.  Pray  do!"  And  with  an 
infantine  confidence  she  took  his  hand,  as  a  child  does  that 
of  a  grown-up  person.     So  they  walked  on  together. 

"And,"  said  the  stranger,  "do  you  know  that  man?  Has  he 
insulted  you  before?" 

"No;  don't  talk  of  him;  ce  me  fait  mail"  And  she  put 
her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

The  French  was  spoken  with  so  French  an  accent  that  in 
some  curiosity  the  stranger  cast  his  eye  over  her  plain  dress. 

"You  speak  French  well." 

"Do  I?  I  wish  I  knew  more  words, — I  only  recollect  a 
few.  When  I  am  very  happy  or  very  sad  they  come  into  my 
head.  But  I  am  happy  now.  I  like  your  voice,  I  like  you. 
Oh,  I  have  dropped  my  basket !  " 

"Shall  I  go  back  for  it,  or  shall  I  buy  j-ou  another?" 

"Another?  oh,  no!  come  back  for  it.  How  kind  you  are! 
Ah,  I  see  it ! "  and  she  broke  away  and  ran  forward  to  pick 
it  up. 

When  she  had  recovered  it,  she  laughed,  she  spoke  to  it, 
she  kissed  it. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  345 

Her  companion  smiled  as  he  said,  — 

"  Some  sweetheart  has  given  you  that  basket,  —  it  seems 
but  a  common  basket,  too." 

"I  have  had  it,  oh,  ever  since  —  since  —  I  don't  know  how 
long!  It  came  with  me  from  France.  It  was  full  of  little 
toys ;  they  are  gone ;  I  am  so  sorry !  " 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"My  pretty  one,"  said  the  stranger,  with  deep  pity  in  his 
rich  voice,  "your  mother  should  not  let  you  go  out  alone  at 
this  hour." 

"Mother!  Mother!  "  repeated  the  girl,  in  atone  of  surprise. 

"Have  you  no  mother?" 

"No!  I  had  a  father  once;  but  he  died,  they  say.  I  did  not 
see  him  die.  I  sometimes  cry  when  I  think  that  I  shall  never, 
never  see  him  again!  But,"  she  said,  changing  her  accent 
from  melancholy  almost  to  joy,  "he  is  to  have  a  grave  here 
like  the  other  girls'  fathers,  a  fine  stone  upon  it,  — and  all  to 
be  done  with  my  money !  " 

"Your  money,  my  child?" 

"Yes;  the  money  I  make.  I  sell  my  work  and  take  the 
money  to  my  grandfather;  but  I  lay  by  a  little  every  week  for 
a  gravestone  for -my  father." 

"  Will  the  gravestone  be  placed  in  tliat  churchyard?  "  They 
were  now  in  another  lane;  and  as  he  spoke,  the  stranger 
checked  her,  and  bending  down  to  look  into  her  face,  he  mur- 
mured to  himself,  "Is  it  possible?     It  must  be!  it  must!  " 

"Yes!  I  love  that  churchyard.  My  brother  told  me  to  put 
flowers  there;  and  Grandfather  and  I  sit  there  in  the  summer, 
without  speaking.  But  I  don't  talk  much,  I  like  singing 
better,  — 

"  '  All  thingfs  that  good  and  harmless  are 

Are  taught,  they  say,  to  sing,  — 
The  maiden  resting  at  her  Mork ; 

The  bird  upon  the  wing  ; 
The  little  ones  at  church,  in  prayer ; 

The  angels  in  the  sky,  — 
The  angels  less  when  babes  are  born 

Than  when  the  aged  die.'  " 


346  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

And  unconscious  of  the  latent  moral,  dark  or  cheering,  accord- 
ing as  we  estimate  the  value  of  this  life,  couched  in  the  con- 
cluding rhyme,  Fanny  turned  round  to  the  stranger,  and  said, 
"Why  should  the  angels  be  glad  when  the  aged  die?" 

"That  they  are  released  from  a  false,  unjust,  and  miserable 
world,  in  which  the  first  man  was  a  rebel  and  the  second  a 
murderer!"  muttered  the  stranger  between  his  teeth,  which 
he  gnashed  as  he  spoke. 

The  girl  did  not  understand  him;  she  shook  her  head  gentl}', 
and  made  no  reply.  A  few  moments,  and  she  paused  before  a 
small  house. 

"This  is  my  home," 

"It  is  so,"  said  her  companion,  examining  the  exteriot  of 
the  house  with  an  earnest  gaze;  "and  your  name  is  Fanny." 

"  Yes,  every  one  knows  Fanny.  Come  in ; "  and  the  girl 
opened  the  door  with  a  latch-key. 

The  stranger  bowed  his  stately  height  as  he  crossed 
the  lowly  threshold  and  followed  his  guide  into  a  little 
parlour. 

Before  a  table  on  which  burned  dimly,  and  with  unheeded 
wick,  a  single  candle,  sat  a  man  of  advanced  age;  and  as  he 
turned  his  face  to  the  door,  the  stranger  saw  that  he  was 
blind. 

The  girl  bounded  to  his  chair,  passed  her  arms  round  the 
old  man's  neck,  and  kissed  his  forehead;  then  nestling  her- 
self at  his  feet  and  leaning  her  clasped  hands  caressingly  on 
his  knee,  she  said,  — 

"  Grandpapa,  I  have  brought  you  somebody  you  must  love. 
He  has  been  so  kind  to  Fanny." 

"  And  neither  of  you  can  remember  me !  "  said  the  guest. 

The  old  man,  whose  dull  face  seemed  to  indicate  dotage, 
half  raised  himself  at  the  sound  of  the  stranger's  voice. 

"Who  is  that?"  said  he,  with  a  feeble  and  querulous  voice. 
"Who  wants  me?" 

"I  am  the  friend  of  your  lost  son.  I  am  he  who,  ten  years 
ago,  brought  Fanny  to  your  roof,  and  gave  her  to  your  care, 
—  your  son's  last  charge;  and  you  blessed  your  son,  and  for- 
gave him,  and  vowed  to  be  a  father  to  his  Fanny." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  347 

The  old  man,  who  had  now  slowly  risen  to  his  feet,  trem- 
bled violently,  and  stretched  out  his  hands. 

"Come  near,  near;  let  me  put  my  hands  on  your  head.  I 
cannot  see  you;  but  Fanny  talks  of  you,  and  prays  for  you; 
and  Fanny  —  she  has  been  an  angel  to  me !  " 

The  stranger  approached  and  half  knelt  as  the  old  man 
spread  his  hands  over  his  head,  muttering  inaudibly.  Mean- 
while Fanny,  pale  as  death,  her  lips  apart,  an  eager,  painful 
expression  on  her  face,  looked  inquiringly  on  the  dark,  marked 
countenance  of  the  visitor,  and  creeping  towards  him  inch  by 
inch,  fearfully  touched  his  dress,  his  arms,  his  countenance. 

"Brother,"  she  said  at  last,  doubtingly  and  timidly,— 
"brother,  I  thought  I  could  never  forget  you!  But  you  are 
not  like  my  brother;  you  are  older;  you  are  —  you  are!  —  no! 
no !  you  are  not  my  brother !  " 

"I  am  much  changed,  Fanny;  and  you  too!  " 
He  smiled  as  he  spoke;  and  the  smile  — sweet  and  pitying 
—  thoroughly  changed  the  character  of  his  face,  which  was 
ordinarily  stern,  grave,  and  proud. 

"  I  know  you  now ! "  exclaimed  Fanny,  in  a  tone  of  wild 
joy.  "  And  you  come  back  from  that  grave !  My  flowers  have 
brought  you  back  at  last!  I  knew  they  would!  Brother! 
Brother!" 

And  she  threw  herself  on  his  breast  and  burst  into  passion- 
ate tears.  Then,  suddenly  drawing  herself  back,  she  laid  her 
finger  on  his  arm,  and  looked  up  at  him  beseechingly. 

"Pray,  now,  is  he  really  dead?  He,  my  father!  he  too  was 
lost  like  you.  Can't  he  come  back  again  as  you  have 
done?" 

"Do  you  grieve  for  him  still,  then?  Poor  girl!  "  said  the 
stranger,  evasively,  and  seating  himself.  Fanny  continued  to 
listen  for  an  answer  to  her  touching  question;  but  finding 
that  none  was  given,  she  stole  away  to  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  leaned  her  face  on  her  hands,  and  seemed  to  think,  till  at 
last,  as  she  so  sat,  the  tears  began  to  flow  down  her  cheeks, 
and  she  wept,  but  silently  and  unnoticed. 

"But,  sir,"  said  the  guest,  after  a  short  pause,  "how  is 
this?     Fanny  tells  me  she  supports  you  by  her  work.    Are 


348  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

you  so  poor,  then?  Yet  I  left  you  your  sou's  bequest;  and 
you  too,  I  understood,  though  not  rich,  were  not  in  want!  " 

"There  was  a  curse  on  my  go  hi,"  said  the  old  man,  sternly. 
"It  was  stolen  from  us." 

There  was  another  pause.     Simon  broke  it. 

"And  you,  young  man,  how  has  it  fared  with  you?  You 
have  prospered,  I  hope." 

"  I  am  as  I  have  been  for  years,  —  alone  in  the  world,  with- 
out kindred  and  without  friends.  But,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I 
am  not  a  beggar !  " 

"No  kindred  and  no  friends!  "  repeated  the  old  man.  "Xo 
father,  no  brother,  no  wife,  no  sister! " 

"None!  No  one  to  care  whether  I  live  or  die,"  answered 
the  stranger,  with  a  mixture  of  pride  and  sadness  in  his  voice. 
"  But,  as  the  song  has  it  — 

*' '  I  care  for  uobody  —  no,  not  I, 
For  uobody  cares  for  me ! '  " 

There  was  a  certain  pathos  in  the  mockery  with  which  he 
repeated  the  homely  lines,  although,  as  he  did,  he  gathered 
himself  up,  as  if  conscious  of  a  certain  consolation  and  reli- 
ance on  the  resources  not  dependent  on  others  which  he  had 
found  in  his  own  strong  limbs  and  his  own  stout  heart. 

At  that  moment  he  felt  a  soft  touch  upon  his  hand,  and  he 
saw  Fanny  looking  at  him  through  the  tears  that  still  flowed. 

"You  have  no  one  to  care  for  you?  Don't  say  so!  Come 
and  live  with  us,  brother;  we  '11  care  for  you.  I  have  never 
forgotten  the  flowers,  never!  Do  come!  Fanny  shall  love 
you.     Fanny  can  work  for  tltree  !  " 

"And  they  call  her  an  idiot! "  mumbled  the  old  man,  with 
a  vacant  smile  on  his  lips. 

"My  sister!  You  shall  be  my  sister!  Forlorn  one,  whom 
even  Nature  has  fooled  and  betrayed !  Sister !  —  we,  both 
orphans!  Sister!"  exclaimed  that  dark,  stern  man,  passion- 
ately, and  with  a  broken  voice ;  and  he  opened  his  arms,  and 
Fanny,  Vv^ithout  a  blush  or  a  thought  of  shame,  threw  herself 
on  his  breast.  He  kissed  her  forehead  with  a  kiss  that  was, 
indeed,  piire  and  holy  as  a  brother's;  and  Fanny  felt  that  he 
had  left  upon  her  cheek  a  tear  that  was  not  her  own. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  349 

"Well,"  lie  said,  with  an  altered  voice,  and  taking  the  old 
man's  hand,  "what  say  you?  Shall  I  take  up  my  lodging 
with  you?  I  have  a  little  money;  I  can  protect  and  aid  you 
both.  I  shall  be  often  away  —  in  London  or  elsewhere  —  and 
will  not  intrude  too  much  on  you.  But  you  blind,  and  she  —  " 
here  he  broke  off  the  sentence  abruptly  and  went  on  — "you 
should  not  be  left  alone.  And  this  neighbourhood,  that  burial- 
place,  are  dear  to  me.  I,  too,  Fanny,  have  lost  a  parent;  and 
that  grave  —  " 

He  paused,  and  then  added,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "And 
you  have  placed  flowers  over  that  grave !  " 

"Stay  with  us,"  said  the  blind  man,  — "not  for  our  sake, 
but  your  own.  The  world  is  a  bad  place.  I  have  been  long 
sick  of  the  world.    Yes!  come  and  live  near  the  burial-ground, 

—  the  nearer  you  are  to  the  grave,  the  safer  you  are ;  —  and 
you  have  a  little  money,  you  say !  " 

"  I  will  come  to-morrow,  then.  I  must  return  now.  To- 
morrow, Fanny,  we  shall  meet  again." 

'^Must  you  go?"  said  Fanny,  tenderly.  "But  you  will 
come  again;  you  know  I  used  to  think  every  one  died  when 
he  left  me.  I  am  wiser  now.  Yet  still,  when  you  do  leave 
me,  it  is  true  that  you  die  for  Fanny !  " 

At  this  moment  as  the  three  persons  were  grouped,  each  had 
assumed  a  posture  of  form,  an  expression  of  face,  which  a 
painter  of  fitting  sentiment  and  skill  would  have  loved  to 
study.  The  visitor  had  gained  the  door;  and  as  he  stood 
there,  his  noble  height,  the  magnificent  strength  and  health 
of  his  manhood  in  its  full  prime,  contrasted  alike  the  almost 
spectral  debility  of  extreme  age  and  the  graceful  delicacy  of 
Fanny,  — half  girl,  half  child.  There  was  something  foreign 
in  his  air,  and  the  half  military  habit,  relieved  by  the  red 
ribbon  of  the  Bourbon  knighthood.  His  complexion  was  dark 
as  that  of  a  Moor,  and  his  raven  hair  curled  close  to  the 
stately  head ;  the  soldier-mustache  —  thick,  but  glossy  as  silk 

—  shaded  the  firm  lip;  and  the  pointed  beard,  assumed  by  the 
exiled  Carlists,  heightened  the  effect  of  the  strong  and  haughty 
features  and  the  expression  of  the  martial  countenance. 

But  as  Fanny's  voice  died  on  his  ear,  he  half  averted  that 


350  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

proud  face ;  and  the  dark  eyes  —  almost  Oriental  in  their  bril- 
liancy and  depth  of  shade  —  seemed  soft  and  humid.  And 
there  stood  Fanny,  in  a  posture  of  such  unconscious  sadness, 
such  childlike  innocence,  — her  arms  drooping,  her  face  wist- 
fully turned  to  his,  and  a  half  smile  upon  the  lips,  that  made 
still  more  touching  the  tears  not  yet  dried  upon  her  cheeks. 
While  thin,  frail,  shadowy,  with  white  hair  and  furrowed 
cheeks,  the  old  man  fixed  his  sightless  orbs  on  space ;  and  his 
face,  usually  only  animated  from  the  lethargy  of  advancing 
dotage  by  a  certain  querulous  cynicism,  now  grew  suddenly 
earnest  and  even  thoughtful,  as  Fanny  spoke  of  Death! 


CHAPTER   V. 

Uli/ss.    Time  liath  a  wallet  at  his  back 

Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion. 

.  .  .  Perseverance,  dear  mv  lord, 

Keeps  honour  bright.  —  Troilus  and  Cressida, 

I  HAVE  not  sought  —  as  would  have  been  easy,  by  a  little 
ingenuity  in  the  earlier  portion  of  this  narrative  —  whatever 
source  of  vulgar  interest  might  be  derived  from  the  mystery 
of  names  and  persons.  As  in  Charles  Spencer  the  reader  is 
allowed  at  a  glance  to  detect  Sidney  Morton,  so  in  Philip  de 
Vaudemont  (the  stranger  who  rescued  Fanny)  the  reader 
at  once  recognizes  the  hero  of  my  tale ;  but  since  neither  of 
these  young  men  has  a  better  right  to  the  name  resigned  than 
to  the  name  adopted,  it  will  be  simpler  and  more  convenient 
to  designate  them  by  those  appellations  bj'  which  they  are 
now  known  to  the  world.  In  truth,  Philip  de  Vaudemont  wa^ 
scarcely  the  same  being  as  Philip  Morton.  In  the  short  visit 
h?  had  paid  to  the  elder  Gawtrey  when  he  consigned  Fanny  to 
his  charge,  he  had  given  no  name;  and  the  one  he  now  took 
(Avhen,  towards  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  he  returned  to 
Simon's  house)  the  old  man  heard  for  the  first  time.     Onoe 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  351 

more  sunk  into  his  usual  apathy,  Simon  did  not  express  any 
surprise  that  a  Frenchman  should  be  so  well  acquainted  with 
English, — he  scarcely  observed  that  the  name  was  French. 
Simon's  age  seemed  daily  to  bring  him  more  and  more  to  that 
state  when  life  is  mere  mechanism,  and  the  soul,  preparing 
for  its  departure,  no  longer  heeds  the  tenement  that  crumbles 
silently  and  neglected  into  its  lonely  dust.  Vaudemont  came 
with  but  little  luggage  (for  he  had  an  apartment  also  in  Lon- 
don) and  no  attendant;  a  single  horse  was  consigned  to  the 
stables  of  an  inn  at  hand,  and  he  seemed,  as  soldiers  are, 
more  careful  for  the  comforts  of  the  animal  than  his  own. 
There  was  but  one  woman  servant  in  the  humble  household, 
who  did  all  the  ruder  work,  for  Fanny's  industry  could  afford 
it.  The  solitary  servant  and  the  homely  fare  sufficed  for  the 
simple  and  hardy  adventurer. 

Fanny,  with  a  countenance  radiant  with  joy,  took  his  hand 
and  led  him  to  his  room.  Poor  child!  with  that  instinct  of 
woman  which  never  deserted  her,  she  had  busied  herself  the 
whole  day  in  striving  to  deck  the  chamber  according  to  her 
own  notions  of  comfort.  She  had  stolen  from  her  little  hoard 
wherewithal  to  make  some  small  purchases,  on  which  the 
Dowbiggin  of  the  suburb  had  been  consulted;  and  what  with 
flowers  on  the  table  and  a  fire  at  the  hearth,  the  room  looked 
cheerful. 

She  watched  him  as  he  glanced  around,  and  felt  disap- 
pointed that  he  did  not  utter  the  admiration  she  expected. 
Angry  at  last  with  the  indifference  which,  in  fact,  as  to  exter- 
nal accommodation,  was  habitual  to  him,  she  plucked  his 
sleeve,  and  said,  — 

"Why  don't  you  speak?  Is  it  not  nice?  Fanny  did  her 
best." 

"  And  a  thousand  thanks  to  Fanny!     It  is  all  I  could  wish." 

"  There  is  another  room,  bigger  than  this,  but  the  wicked 
woman  who  robbed  us  slept  there;  and  besides,  you  said  you 
liked  the  churchyard.  See! "  and  she  opened  the  window  and 
pointed  to  the  church-tower  rising  dark  against  the  evening 
sky. 

"  This  is  better  than  all !  "  said  Vaudemont ;  and  he  looked 


352  NIGHT   AXD   MORNING. 

out  from  the  window  in  a  silent  reveiy,  wliich  Fanny  did  not 
disturb. 

And  now  lie  was  settled!  From  a  career  so  wild,  agitated, 
and  various,  the  adventurer  paused  in  that  humble  resting- 
nook.  But  quiet  is  not  repose,  obscurity  is  not  content. 
Often  as,  morn  and  eve,  he  looked  forth  upon  the  spot  where 
his  mother's  heart,  unconscious  of  love  and  woe,  mouldered 
away,  the  indignant  and  bitter  feelings  of  the  wronged  outcast 
and  the  son  who  could  not  clear  the  mother's  name  swept  away 
the  subdued  and  gentle  melancholy  into  which  time  usually 
softens  regret  for  the  dead,  and  with  which  most  of  us  think 
of  the  distant  past  and  the  once  joyous  childhood! 

In  this  man's  breast  lay,  concealed  by  his  external  calm, 
those  memories  and  aspirations  which  are  as  strong  as  pas- 
sions. In  his  earlier  years,  when  he  had  been  put  to  hard 
shifts  for  existence,  he  had  found  no  leisure  for  close  and 
brooding  reflection  upon  that  spoliation  of  just  rights,  that 
calumny  upon  his  mother's  name,  which  had  first  brought  the 
Night  into  his  Morning.  His  resentment  towards  the  Beau- 
forts,  it  is  true,  had  ever  been  an  intense  but  a  fitful  and  irreg- 
ular passion.  It  was  exactly  in  proportion  as,  by  those  rare 
and  romantic  incidents  which  Fiction  cannot  invent,  and  which 
Narrative  takes  with  diffidence  from  the  great  Store-house  of 
Real  Life,  his  steps  had  ascended  in  the  social  ladder,  that 
all  which  his  childhood  had  lost,  all  which  the  robbers  of  his 
heritage  had  gained,  the  grandeur  and  the  power  of  wealth, 
above  all,  the  hourly  and  the  tranquil  happiness  of  a  stainless 
name,  became  palpable  and  distinct.  He  had  loved  Eugenie 
as  a  boy  loves  for  the  first  time  an  accomplished  woman.  He 
regarded  her,  so  refined,  so  gentle,  so  gifted,  with  the  feelings 
due  to  a  superior  being,  with  an  eternal  recollection  of  the 
ministering  angel  that  had  shone  upon  him  when  he  stood  on 
the  dark  abyss.  She  was  the  first  that  had  redeemed  his  fate, 
the  first  that  had  guided  aright  his  path,  the  first  that  had 
tamed  the  savage  at  his  breast;  it  was  the  young  lion  charmed 
by  the  eyes  of  Una.  The  outline  of  his  story  had  been  truly 
given  at  Lord  Lilburne's.  Despite  his  pride  —  which  revolted 
from  such  obligations  to  another,  and  a  woman:  which  disliked 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  353 

and  struggled  against  a  disguise  which  at  once  and  alone  saved 
him  from  the  detection  of  the  past  and  the  terrors  of  the 
future  —  he  had  yielded  to  her,  the  wise  and  the  gentle,  as 
one  whose  judgment  he  could  not  doubt;  and,  indeed,  the 
slanderous  falsehoods  circulated  by  the  lackey,  to  whose  dis- 
cretion, the  night  of  Gawtrey's  death,  Eugenie  had  preferred 
to  confide  her  own  honour  rather  than  another's  life,  had  (as 
Liancourt  rightly  stated)  left  Philip  no  option  but  that  which 
Madame  de  Merville  deemed  the  best,  whether  for  her  happi- 
ness or  her  good  name.  Then  had  followed  a  brief  season,  — 
the  holiday  of  his  life,  — the  season  of  young  hope  and  pas- 
sion, of  brilliancy  and  joy,  closing  by  that  abrupt  death  which 
again  left  him  lonely  in  the  world. 

When,  from  the  grief  that  succeeded  to  the  death  of  Eugenie, 
he  woke  to  find  himself  amidst  the  strange  faces  and  exciting 
scenes  of  an  Oriental  court,  he  turned  with  hard  and  disgust- 
ful contempt  from  Pleasure  as  an  infidelity  to  the  dead. 
Ambition  crept  over  him.  His  mind  hardened  as  his  cheek 
bronzed  under  those  burning  suns;  his  hardy  frame,  his 
energies  prematurely  awakened,  his  constitutional  disregard 
to  danger,  made  him  a  brave  and  skilful  soldier.  He  acquired 
reputation  and  rank.  But  as  time  went  on,  the  ambition  took 
a  higher  flight.  He  felt  his  sphere  circumscribed;  the  East- 
ern indolence  that  filled  up  the  long  intervals  between  Eastern 
action  chafed  a  temper  never  at  rest.  He  returned  to  Erance. 
His  reputation,  Liancourt's  friendship,  and  the  relations  of 
Eugenie  —  grateful,  as  has  before  been  implied,  for  the  gener- 
osity with  which  he  surrendered  the  principal  part  of  her 
donation  —  opened  for  him  a  new  career,  but  one  painful  and 
galling.  In  the  Indian  court  there  was  no  question  of  his 
birth,  —  one  adventurer  was  equal  with  the  rest.  P>ut  in 
Paris,  a  man  attempting  to  rise  provoked  all  the  sarcasm  of 
wit,  all  the  cavils  of  party;  and  in  polished  and  civil  life, 
what  valour  has  weapons  against  a  jest?  Thus,  in  civiliza- 
tion, all  the  passions  that  spring  from  humiliated  self-love 
and  baffled  aspiration  again  preyed  upon  his  breast.  He  saw 
then  that  the  more  he  struggled  from  obscurity,  the  more 
acute  would  become  research  into  his  true  origin;   and  his 

23 


354  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

■writhing  pride  almost  stung  to  death  his  ambition.  To  suc- 
ceed in  life  by  regular  means  was  indeed  difficult  for  this 
man :  always  recoiling  from  the  name  he  bore ;  always  strong 
in  the  hope  yet  to  regain  that  to  which  he  conceived  himself 
entitled;  cherishing  that  pride  of  country  which  never  deserts 
the  native  of  a  Free  State,  however  harsh  a  parent  she  may 
have  proved;  and,  above  all,  whatever  his  ambition  and  his 
passions,  taking,  from  the  very  misfortunes  he  had  known,  an 
indomitable  belief  in  the  ultimate  justice  of  Heaven,  —  he  had 
refused  to  sever  the  last  ties  that  connected  him  with  his  lost 
heritage  and  his  forsaken  land;  he  refused  to  be  naturalized, 
to  make  the  name  he  bore  legally  undisputed;  he  was  contented 
to  be  an  alien.  Neither  was  Vaudemont  fitted  exactly  for  that 
crisis  in  the  social  world  when  the  men  of  journals  and  talk 
bustle  aside  the  men  of  action.  He  had  not  cultivated  litera- 
ture, he  had  no  book -knowledge ;  the  world  had  been  his 
school,  and  stern  life  his  teacher.  Still,  eminently  skilled 
in  those  physical  accomplishments  which  men  admire  and  sol- 
diers covet,  calm  and  self-possessed  in  manner,  of  great 
personal  advantages,  of  much  ready  talent  and  of  practised 
observation  in  character,  he  continued  to  breast  the  obstacles 
around  him,  and  to  establish  himself  in  the  favour  of  those  in 
power.  It  was  natural  to  a  person  so  reared  and  circum- 
stanced to  have  no  sympathy  with  what  is  called  the  popular 
cause.  He  was  no  citizen  in  the  state,  — he  was  a  stranger  in 
the  land.  He  had  suffered  and  still  suffered  too  much  from 
mankind  to  have  that  philanthropy,  sometimes  visionary  but 
always  noble,  which  in  fact  generally  springs  from  the  studies 
we  cultivate  not  in  the  forum  but  the  closet.  Men,  alas !  too 
often  lose  the  Democratic  Enthusiasm  in  proportion  as  they  find 
reason  to  suspect  or  despise  their  kind ;  and  if  there  were  not 
hopes  for  the  Future  which  this  hard,  practical  daily  life  does 
not  suffice  to  teach  us,  the  vision  and  the  glory  that  belong  to 
the  Great  Popular  Creed,  dimmed  beneath  the  injustice,  the 
follies,  and  the  vices  of  the  world  as  it  is,  would  fade  into  the 
lukewarm  sectarianism  of  temporary  Party.  Moreover,  Vaude- 
mont's  habits  of  thought  and  reasoning  were  those  of  the  camp, 
confirmed  by  the  systems  familiar  to  him  in  the  East:  he  re- 


NIGHT   A2JD  MORNING.  355 

garded  the  populace  as  a  soldier  enamoured  of  discipline  and 
order  usually  does.  His  theories,  therefore,  or  rather  his  igno- 
rance of  what  is  sound  in  theory,  went  with  Charles  the  Tenth 
in  his  excesses,  but  not  with  the  timidity  which  terminated 
those  excesses  by  dethronement  and  disgrace.  Chafed  to  the 
heart,  gnawed  with  proud  grief,  he  obeyed  the  royal  man- 
dates, and  followed  the  exiled  monarch, — his  hopes  over- 
thrown, his  career  in  France  annihilated  forever.  But  on 
entering  England,  his  temper,  confident  and  ready  of  resource, 
fastened  itself  on  new  food.  In  the  land  where  he  had  no 
name  he  might  yet  rebuild  his  fortunes.  It  was  an  arduous 
effort,  an  improbable  hope;  but  the  words  heard  by  the  bridge 
of  Paris  —  words  that  had  often  cheered  him  in  his  exile 
through  hardships  and  through  dangers  which  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  our  narrative  to  detail  —  yet  rung  again  in  his  ear,  as 
he  leaped  on  his  native  land,  — "Time,  Faith,  Energy." 

While  such  his  character  in  the  larger  and  more  distant 
relations  of  life,  in  the  closer  circles  of  companionship  many 
rare  and  noble  qualities  were  visible.  It  is  true  that  he  was 
stern,  perhaps  imperious,  of  a  temper  that  always  struggled 
for  command;  but  he  was  deeply  susceptible  of  kindness,  and 
if  feared  by  those  who  opposed,  loved  by  those  who  served 
him.  About  his  character  was  that  mixture  of  tenderness  and 
fierceness  which  belonged,  of  old,  to  the  descriptions  of  the 
warrior.  Though  so  little  lettered.  Life  had  taught  him  a 
certain  poetry  of  sentiment  and  idea,  —  more  poetry,  perhaps, 
in  the  silent  thoughts  that,  in  his  happier  moments,  filled  his 
solitude  than  in  half  the  pages  that  his  brother  had  read  and 
written  by  the  dreaming  lake.  A  certain  largeness  of  idea 
and  nobility  of  impulse  often  made  him  act  the  sentiments  of 
which  bookmen  write.  With  all  his  passions,  he  held  licen- 
tiousness in  disdain;  with  all  his  ambition  for  the  power  of 
wealth,  he  despised  its  luxury.  Simple,  masculine,  severe, 
abstemious,  he  was  of  that  mould  in  which,  in  earlier  times, 
the  successful  men  of  action  have  been  cast.  But  to  success- 
ful action,  circumstance  is  more  necessary  than  to  triumphant 
study. 

It  was  to  be  expected  that  in  proportion  as  he  had  been 


356  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

familiar  with  a  purer  and  nobler  life,  he  should  look  with 
great  and  deep  self-humiliation  at  his  early  association  with 
Gawtrey.  He  was  in  this  respect  more  severe  on  himself  than 
any  other  mind  ordinarily  just  and  candid  would  have  been, 
when  fairly  surveying  the  circumstances  of  penury,  hunger, 
and  despair  which  had  driven  him  to  Gawtrey 's  roof,  the  im- 
perfect nature  of  his  early  education,  the  boyish  trust  and 
affection  he  had  felt  for  his  protector,  and  his  own  ignorance 
of  and  exemption  from  all  the  worst  practices  of  that  unhappy 
criminal;  but  still,  when,  with  the  knowledge  he  had  now 
acquired,  the  man  looked  calmly  back,  his  cheek  burned  with 
remorseful  shame  at  his  unreflecting  companionship  in  a  life 
of  subterfuge  and  equivocation,  the  true  nature  of  which,  the 
boy  (so  circumstanced  as  we  have  shown  him)  might  be  for- 
given for  not  at  that  time  comprehending.  Two  advantages 
resulted,  however,  from  the  error  and  the  remorse:  first,  the 
humiliation  it  brought,  curbed  in  some  measure  a  pride  that 
might  otherwise  have  been  arrogant  and  unamiable ;  and  sec- 
ondly, as  I  have  before  intimated,  his  profound  gratitude  to 
Heaven  for  his  deliverance  from  the  snares  that  had  beset  his 
youth  gave  his  future  the  guide  of  an  earnest  and  heartfelt 
faith.  He  acknowledged  in  life  no  such  thing  as  accident. 
Whatever  his  struggles,  whatever  his  melancholy,  whatever 
his  sense  of  worldly  wrong,  he  never  despaired;  for  nothing 
now  could  shake  his  belief  in  one  directing  Providence. 

The  ways  and  habits  of  Vaudemont  were  not  at  discord  with 
those  of  the  quiet  household  in  which  he  was  now  a  guest. 
Like  most  men  of  strong  frames,  and  accustomed  to  active, 
not  studious  pursuits,  he  rose  early;  and  usually  rode  to  Lon- 
don, to  come  back  late  at  noon  to  their  frugal  meal.  And  if 
again,  perhaps  after  the  hour  when  Fanny  and  Simon  retired, 
he  would  often  return  to  London,  his  own  pass-key  readmitted 
him,  at  whatever  time  he  came  l)ack,  without  disturbing  the 
sleep  of  the  household.  Sometimes,  when  the  sun  began  to 
decline,  if  the  air  was  warm,  the  old  man  would  crawl  out, 
leaning  on  that  strong  arm,  through  the  neighbouring  lanes, 
ever  returning  through  the  lonely  burial-ground ;  or  whon  the 
blind  host  clung  to  his  fireside,  and  composed  himself  to  sleep, 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  357 

Pliilip  would  saunter  forth  along  with  Fanny;  and  on  the 
days  when  she  went  to  sell  her  work  or  select  her  purchases, 
he  always  made  a  point  of  attending  her;  and  her  cheek  wore 
a  flush  of  pride  when  she  saw  him  carrying  her  little  basket, 
or  waiting  without,  in  musing  patience,  while  she  performed 
her  commissions  in  the  shops.  Though  in  reality  Fanny's 
intellect  was  ripening  within,  yet  still  the  surface  often  mis- 
led the  eye  as  to  the  depths.  It  was  rather  that  something 
yet  held  back  the  faculties  from  their  growth  than  that  the 
faculties  themselves  were  wanting.  Her  weakness  was  more 
of  the  nature  of  the  infant's  than  of  one  afflicted  with  incura- 
ble imbecility.  For  instance,  she  managed  the  little  house- 
hold with  skill  and  prudence ;  she  could  calculate  in  her  head, 
as  rapidly  as  Vaudemont  himself,  the  arithmetic  necessary  to 
her  simple  duties;  she  knew  the  value  of  money,  — which  is 
more  than  some  of  us  wise  folk  do.  Her  skill,  even  in  her 
infancy  so  remarkable,  in  various  branches  of  female  handi- 
work, was  carried,  not  only  by  perseverance,  but  by  invention 
and  peculiar  talent,  to  a  marvellous  and  exquisite  perfection. 
Her  embroidery,  especially  in  what  was  then  more  rare  than 
at  present,  namely,  — flowers  on  silk,  — was  much  in  request 
among  the  great  modistes  of  London,  to  whom  it  found  its 
way  through  the  agency  of  Miss  Semper.  So  that  all  this  had 
enabled  her  for  years  to  provide  every  necessary  comfort  of 
life  for  herself  and  her  blind  protector.  And  her  care  for 
the  old  man  was  beautiful  in  its  minuteness,  its  vigilance. 
Wherever  her  heart  was  interested,  there  never  seemed  a  defi- 
ciency of  mind.  Vaudemont  was  touched  to  see  how  much  of 
affectionate  and  pitying  respect  she  appeared  to  enjoy  in  the 
neighbourhood,  especially  among  the  humbler  classes,  —  even 
the  beggar  who  swept  the  crossings  did  not  beg  of  her,  but 
bade  God  bless  her  as  she  passed;  and  the  rude,  discontented 
artisan  would  draw  himself  from  the  wall  and  answer,  with 
a  softened  brow,  the  smile  with  which  the  harmless  one 
charmed  his  courtesy.  In  fact,  whatever  attraction  she  took 
from  her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  misfortune,  and  her  affecting 
industry  was  heightened,  in  the  eyes  of  the  poorer  neighbours, 
by  many  little  traits  of  charity  and  kindness;  many  a  sick 


358  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

child  had  she  tended,  and  many  a  breadless  board  had  stolen 
something  from  the  stock  set  aside  for  hor  father's  grave. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  once  whispered  to  Vaudemont. 
"  that  G«)d  attends  to  us  more  if  we  are  good  to  those  who 
are  sick  and  hungry?  " 

"Certainly  we  are  taught  to  think  so." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret, — don't  tell  again.  Grand- 
papa once  said  that  my  father  had  done  bad  things;  now  if 
Fanny  is  good  to  those  she  can  help,  I  think  that  God  will 
hear  her  more  kindly  when  she  prays  him  to  forgive  what  her 
father  did.  Do  you  think  so  too?  Do  say, — you  are  so 
wise! " 

"Fanny,  you  are  wiser  than  all  of  us;  and  I  feel  myself 
better  and  happier  when  I  hear  you  speak." 

There  were,  indeed,  many  moments  when  Vaudemont 
thought  that  her  deficiencies  of  intellect  might  have  been 
repaired  long  since  by  skilful  culture  and  habitual  compan- 
ionship with  those  of  her  own  age,  —  from  which  companion- 
ship, however,  Fanny  even  when  at  school  had  shrunk  aloof. 
At  other  moments  there  was  something  so  absent  and  dis- 
tracted about  her,  or  so  fantastic  and  incoherent,  that  Vaude- 
mont, with  the  man's  hard,  worldly  eye,  read  in  it  nothing 
but  melancholy  confusion.  Nevertheless,  if  the  skein  of  ideas 
was  entangled,  each  thread  in  itself  was  a  thread  of  gold. 

Fanny's  great  object,  her  great  ambition,  her  one  hope,  was 
a  tomb  for  her  supposed  father.  Whether  from  some  of  that 
early  religion  attached  to  the  grave,  which  is  most  felt  in 
Catholic  countries,  and  which  she  had  imbibed  at  the  convent; 
or  from  her  residence  so  near  the  burial-ground,  and  the  affec- 
tion with  which  she  regarded  the  spot,  —  whatever  the  cause, 
she  had  cherished  for  some  years,  as  young  maidens  usually 
cherish  the  desire  of  the  Altar,  the  dream  of  the  Gravestone. 
But  the  hoard  was  amassed  so  slowly !  Now  old  Gawtrey  was 
attacked  by  illness ;  now  there  was  some  little  difficulty  in  the 
rent;  now  some  fluctuation  in  the  price  of  work;  and  now, 
and  more  often  than  all,  some  demand  on  her  charity,  which 
interfered  with  and  drew  from  the  pious  savings.  This  was  a 
sentiment  in  which  her  new  friend  sympathized  deeply;  for 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  359 

he,  too,  remembered  that  his  first  gold  had  bought  that  humble 
stone  which  still  preserved  upon  the  earth  the  memory  of  his 
mother. 

Meanwhile,  days  crept  on,  and  no  new  violence  was  offered 
to  Fanny.  Vaudemont  learned,  then,  by  little  and  little  — 
and  Fanny's  account  was  very  confused  —  the  nature  of  the 
danger  she  had  run. 

It  seemed  that  one  day,  tempted  by  the  fineness  of  the 
weather  up  the  road  that  led  from  the  suburb  farther  into  the 
country,  Fanny  was  stopped  by  a  gentleman  in  a  carriage, 
who  accosted  hei*,  as  she  said,  very  kindly;  and  after  several 
questions,  which  she  answered  with  her  usual  unsuspecting 
innocence,  learned  her  trade,  insisted  on  purchasing  some 
articles  of  work  which  she  had  at  the  moment  in  her  basket, 
and  promised  to  procure  her  a  constant  purchaser,  upon  much 
better  terms  than  she  had  hitherto  obtained,  if  she  would  call 
at  the  house  of  a  Mrs.  West,  about  a  mile  from  the  suburb 
towards  London.  This  she  promised  to  do,  and  this  she  did, 
according  to  the  address  he  gave  her.  She  was  admitted  to  a 
lady  more  gayly  dressed  than  Fanny  had  ever  seen  a  lady 
before,  —  the  gentleman  was  also  present ;  they  both  loaded 
her  with  compliments,  and  bought  her  work  at  a  price  which 
seemed  about  to  realize  all  the  hopes  of  the  poor  girl  as  to  the 
gravestone  for  William  Gawtrey,  —  as  if  his  evil  fate  pursued 
that  wild  man  beyond  the  grave,  and  his  very  tomb  was  to  be 
purchased  by  the  gold  of  the  polluter!  The  lady  then  ap- 
pointed her  to  call  again;  but,  meanwhile,  she  met  Fanny  in 
the  streets,  and  while  she  was  accosting  her,  it  fortunately 
chanced  that  Miss  Semper  the  milliner  passed  that  way, 
turned  round,  looked  hard  at  the  lady,  used  very  angry  lan- 
guage to  her,  seized  Fanny's  hand,  led  her  away  while  the 
lady  slunk  off,  and  told  her  that  the  said  lady  was  a  very  bad 
woman,  and  that  Fanny  must  never  speak  to  her  again.  Fanny 
most  cheerfully  promised  this.  And  in  fact  the  lady,  probably 
afraid,  whether  of  the  mob  or  the  magistrates,  never  again 
came  near  her. 

"And,"  said  Fanny,  "I  gave  the  money  they  had  both 
given  to  me  to  Miss  Semper,  who  said  she  would  send  it 
back." 


360  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"  You  did  right,  Fanny ;  and  as  you  made  one  promise  to 
Miss  Semper,  so  you  must  make  me  one,  —  never  to  stir  from 
home  again  without  me  or  some  other  person.  No,  no  other 
person,  —  only  me.  I  will  give  up  everything  else  to  go  with 
you." 

"Will  you?  Oh,  yes.  I  promise!  I  used  to  like  going 
alone,  but  that  was  before  you  came,  brother." 

And  as  Fanny  kept  her  promise,  it  would  have  been  a  bold 
gallant  indeed  who  would  have  ventured  to  molest  her  by  the 
side  of  that  stately  and  strong  protector. 


CHAPTER  VT. 

Timon.    Each  thing 's  a  thief  : 

The  laws,  your  curb  and  whip,  in  their  rough  power 
Have  unchecked  theft. 

The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  affords, 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it 
Freely  command.  —  Timon  of  Athens. 

On  the  day  and  at  the  hour  fixed  for  the  interview  with  the 
stranger  who  had  visited  Mr.  Beaufort,  Lord  Lilburne  was 
seated  in  the  library  of  his  brother-in-law;  and  before  the 
elbow-chair,  on  which  he  lolled  carelessly,  stood  our  old 
friend  Mr.   Sharp,   of  Bow  Street  notability. 

"Mr.  Sharp,"  said  the  peer,  "I  have  sent  for  you  to  do  me 
little  favour.  I  expect  a  man  here  who  professes  to  give  Mr. 
Beaufort,  my  brother-in-law,  some  information  about  a  law- 
suit. It  is  necessary  to  know  the  exact  value  of  his  evidence. 
I  wish  you  to  ascertain  all  particulars  about  him.  Be  so  good 
as  to  seat  yourself  in  the  porter's  chair  in  the  hall;  note  him 
when  he  enters,  unobserved  yourself;  but  as  he  is  probably  a 
stranger  to  you,  note  him  still  more  when  he  leaves  the  house; 
follow  him  at  a  distance;  find  out  where  he  lives,  whom  he 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  361 

associates  with,  where  he  visits,  their  names  and  directions, 
what  his  character  and  calling  are,  —  in  a  word,  everything 
you  can,  and  report  to  me  each  evening.  Dog  him  well, 
never  lose  sight  of  him, —  you  will  be  handsomely  paid.  You 
understand?" 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Sharp,  "leave  me  alone,  my  lord.  Been 
employed  before  by  your  lordship's  brother-in-law.  We 
knows  what's  what." 

"I  don't  doubt  it.  To  your  post, —  I  expect  him  every 
moment." 

And,  in  fact,  Mr.  Sharp  had  only  just  ensconced  himself  in 
the  porter's  chair  when  the  stranger  knocked  at  the  door.  In 
another  moment  he  was  shown  in  to  Lord  Lilburne. 

"Sir,"  said  his  lordship,  without  rising,  "be  so  good  as  to 
take  a  chair.  Mr.  Beaufort  is  obliged  to  leave  town ;  he  has 
asked  me  to  see  you, —  I  am  one  of  his  family,  his  wife  is  my 
sister;  you  may  be  as  frank  with  me  as  with  him, —  more  so, 
perhaps." 

"  I  beg  the  fauvour  of  your  name,  sir, "  said  the  stranger, 
adjusting  his  collar. 

"Yours  first, —  business  is  business." 

"Well,  then.  Captain  Smith." 

"  Of  what  regiment?  " 

"Half-pay." 

"1  am  Lord  Lilburne.  Your  name  is  Smith?  Humph!" 
added  the  peer,  looking  over  some  notes  before  him;  "I  see 
it  is  also  the  name  of  the  witness  appealed  to  by  Mrs.  Morton, 
humph ! " 

At  this  remark,  and  still  more  at  the  look  which  accom- 
panied it,  the  countenance,  before  impudent  and  complacent, 
of  Captain  Smith  fell  into  visible  embarrassment;  he  cleared 
his  throat  and  said,  with  a  little  hesitation, — 

"My  lord,  that  witness  is  living!  " 

"No  doubt  of  it, —  witnesses  never  die  where  property  is 
concerned  and  imposture  intended." 

At  this  moment  the  servant  entered,  and  placed  a  little 
note,  quaintly  folded,  before  Lord  Lilburne.  He  glanced  at 
it  in  surprise,  opened,  and  read  as  follows,  in  pencil :  — 


362  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

My  Lord,  —  I  knows  the  man ;  take  caer  of  him ;  he  \a  as  big  a 
roge  as  ever  stept;  he  was  transported  some  three  year  back,  and 
unless  his  time  has  been  shortened  by  the  Home,  he 's  absent  without 
leve.  We  used  to  call  him  Dashing  Jerry.  That  ere  youngster  we 
went  arter,  by  Mr.  Bofort's  wish,  was  a  pall  of  his.  Scuze  the  liberty 
I  take.  J.  Sharp. 

While  Lord  Lilburne  held  this  effusion  to  the  candle,  and 
spelled  his  way  through  it,  Captain  Smith,  recovering  his 
self-composure,  thus  proceeded, — 

"Imposture,  my  lord!  imposture!  I  really  don't  under- 
stand. Your  lordship  really  seems  so  suspicious  that  it  is 
quite  uncomfortable.  I  am  sure  it  is  all  the  same  to  me;  and 
if  Mr.  Beaufort  does  not  think  proper  to  see  me  himself,  why 
I'd  best  make  my  bow." 

And  Captain  Smith  rose. 

"Stay  a  moment,  sir.  What  Mr.  Beaufort  may  yet  do,  I 
cannot  say;  but  I  know  this, — you  stand  charged  of  a  very 
grave  offence;  and  if  your  witness  or  witnesses  —  you  may 
have  fifty,  for  what  I  care  —  are  equally  guilty,  so  much  the 
worse  for  them." 

"My  lord,  I  really  don't  comprehend." 

"  Then  I  will  be  more  plain.  I  accuse  you  of  devising  an 
infamous  falsehood  for  the  purpose  of  extorting  money.  Let 
j'-our  witnesses  appear  in  court,  and  I  promise  that  you,  they, 
and  the  young  man,  Mr.  Morton,  whose  claim  they  set  up, 
shall  be  indicted  for  conspiracy,  —  conspiracy,  if  accompanied 
(as  in  the  case  of  your  witnesses)  with  perjury,  of  the  black- 
est die.  Mr.  Smith,  I  know  you;  and  before  ten  o'clock  to- 
morrow, I  shall  know  also  if  you  had  his  Majesty's  leave  to 
quit  the  colonies!     Ah!     I  am  plain  enough  now,  I  see." 

And  Lord  Lilburne  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
coldly  contemplated  the  white  face  and  dismayed  expression 
of  the  crestfallen  captain.  That  most  worthy  person,  after  a 
pause  of  confusion,  amaze,  and  fear,  made  an  involuntary 
stride,  with  a  menacing  gesture,  towards  Lilburne;  the  peer 
quietly  placed  his  hand  on  the  bell. 

"One  moment  more,"  said  the  latter;  "if  I  ring  this  bell, 
it  is  to  place  you  in  custody.     Let  IMr.  Beaufort  but  see  you 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  363 

here  once  again, —  nay,  let  him  but  hear  another  word  of  this 
pretended  lawsuit, —  and  you  return  to  the  colonies.  Pshaw! 
Frown  not  at  me,  sir!  A  Bow  Street  officer  is  in  the  hall. 
Begone!  no,  stop  one  moment,  and  take  a  lesson  in  life. 
Never  again  attempt  to  threaten  people  of  property  and  sta- 
tion. Around  every  rich  man  is  a  wall, — better  not  run  your 
head  against  it. ' 

"But  I  swear  solemnly,"  cried  the  knave,  with  an  emphasis 
so  startling  that  it  carried  with  it  the  appearance  of  truth, 
"that  the  marriage  did  take  place." 

"And  I  say,  no  less  solemnly,  that  any  one  who  swears  it 
in  a  court  of  law  shall  be  prosecuted  for  perjury!  Bah!  you 
are  a  sorry  rogue,  after  all !  " 

And  with  an  air  of  supreme  and  half-compassionate  con- 
tempt. Lord  Lilburne  turned  away  and  stirred  the  fire.  Cap- 
tain Smith  muttered  and  fumbled  a  moment  with  his  gloves, 
then  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sneaked  out. 

That  night  Lord  Lilburne  again  received  his  friends,  and 
amongst  his  guests  came  Vaudemont.  Lilburne  was  one  who 
liked  the  study  of  character,  especially  the  character  of  men 
wrestling  against  the  world.  Wholly  free  from  every  species 
of  ambition,  he  seemed  to  reconcile  himself  to  his  apathy  by 
examining  into  the  disquietude,  the  mortification,  the  heart's 
wear  and  tear,  which  are  the  lot  of  the  ambitious.  Like  the 
spider  in  his  hole,  he  watched  with  hungry  pleasure  the  flies 
struggling  in  the  web,  through  whose  slimy  labyrinth  he 
walked  with  an  easy  safety.  Perhaps  one  reason  why  he 
loved  gaming  was  less  from  the  joy  of  winning  than  the  phil- 
osophical complacency  with  which  he  feasted  on  the  emotions 
of  those  who  lost, —  always  serene,  and,  except  in  debauch, 
always  passionless, —  Majendie,  tracing  the  experiments  of 
science  in  the  agonies  of  some  tortured  dog,  could  not  be 
more  rapt  in  the  science  and  more  indifferent  to  the  dog  than 
Lord  Lilburne,  ruining  a  victim,  in  the  analysis  of  human 
passions, —  stoical  in  the  writhings  of  the  wretch  whom  he 
tranquilly  dissected.  He  wished  to  win  money  of  Vaudemont, 
to  ruin  this  man,  who  presumed  to  be  more  generous  than 
other  people;  to  see  a  bold  adventurer  submitted  to  the  wheel 


364  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

of  the  Fortune  which  reigns  in  a  pack  of  cards, —  and  all,  of 
course,  without  the  least  hate  to  the  man  whom  he  then  saw 
for  the  first  time.  On  the  contrary,  he  felt  a  respect  for 
Vaudemont.  Like  most  worldly  men,  Lord  Lilburne  was  pre- 
possessed in  favour  of  those  who  seek  to  rise  in  life :  and  like 
men  who  have  excelled  in  manly  and  athletic  exercises,  he 
was  also  prepossessed  in  favour  of  those  who  appeared  fitted 
for  the  same  success. 

Liancourt  took  aside  his  friend,  as  Lord  Lilburne  was 
talking  with  his  other  guests, — 

"I  need  not  caution  you,  who  never  play,  not  to  commit 
yourself  to  Lord  Lilburne's  tender  mercies;  remember,  he  is 
an  admirable  player." 

"Nay,"  answered  Vaudemont,  "I  want  to  know  this  man; 
I  have  reasons,  which  alone  induce  me  to  enter  his  house.  I 
can  afford  to  venture  something,  because  I  wish  to  see  if  I 
can  gain  something  for  one  dear  to  me.  And  for  the  rest,"  he 
muttered,  "I  know  him  too  well  not  to  be  on  my  guard." 
With  that  he  joined  Lord  Lilburne's  group,  and  accepted  the 
invitation  to  the  card-table.  At  supper,  Vaudemont  conversed 
more  than  was  habitual  to  him;  he  especially  addressed  him- 
self to  his  host,  and  listened,  with  great  attention,  to 
Lilburne's  caustic  comments  upon  every  topic  successively 
started.  And  whether  it  was  the  art  of  De  Vaudemont,  or 
from  an  interest  that  Lord  Lilburne  took  in  studying  what 
was  to  him  a  new  character,  or  whether  that,  both  men  ex- 
celling peculiarly  in  all  masculine  accomplishments,  their 
conversation  was  of  a  nature  that  was  more  attractive  to 
themselves  than  to  others,  it  so  happened  that  they  were 
still  talking  while  the  daylight  already  peered  through  the 
window-curtains. 

"And  I  have  outstayed  all  your  guests,"  said  De  Vaudemont, 
glancing  round  the  emptied  room. 

"It  is  the  best  compliment  you  could  pay  me.  Another 
night  we  can  enliven  our  tete-a-tete  with  ecart^, — though  at 
your  age,  and  with  your  appearance,  I  am  surprised.  Monsieur 
de  Vaudemont,  that  you  are  fond  of  play.  I  should  have 
thought  that  it  was  not  in  a  pack  of  cards  that  you  looked 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  365 

for  hearts.     But  perhaps  you  are  blas&  betimes  of  the  heau 
sexe.  " 

"Yet  your  lordship's  devotion  to  it  is,  perhaps,  as  great 
now  as  ever?  " 

"Mine?  No,  not  as  ever.  To  different  ages  different  de- 
grees. At  your  age  I  wooed;  at  mine  I  purchase,— the  better 
phan  of  the  two;  it  does  not  take  up  half  so  much  time." 

"Your  marriage,  I  think,  Lord  Lilburne,  was  not  blessed 
with  children.  Perhaps  sometimes  you  feel  the  want  of 
them?" 

"  If  I  did,  I  could  have  them  by  the  dozen.  Other  ladies 
have  been  more  generous  in  that  department  than  the  late 
Lady  Lilburne,   Heaven  rest  her !  " 

"And,"  said  Vaudemont,  fixing  his  eyes  with  some  earnest- 
ness on  his  host,  "  if  you  were  really  persuaded  that  you  had 
a  child,  or  perhaps  a  grandchild,— the  mother  one  whom  you 
loved  in  your  first  youth, —  a  child  affectionate,  beautiful,  and 
especially  needing  your  care  and  protection,  would  you  not 
suffer  that  child,  though  illegitimate,  to  supply  to  you  the 
want  of  filial  affection?" 

"Filial  affection,  mon  eherf"  repeated  Lord  Lilburne, 
"needing  my  care  and  protection!  Pshaw!  In  other  words, 
would  I  give  board  and  lodging  to  some  young  vagabond  who 
was  good  enough  to  say  he  was  son  to  Lord  Lilburne?" 

"But  if  you  were  convinced  that  the  claimant  were  your 
son,  or  perhaps  your  daughter, —  a  tenderer  name  of  the  two, 
and  a  more  helpless  claimant?" 

"My  dear  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  you  are  doubtless  a 
man  of  gallantry  and  of  the  world.  If  the  children  whom^ 
the  law  forces  on  one  are,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  such  damna- 
ble 'plagues,  judge  if  one  would  father  those  whom  the  law 
permits  us  to  disown!  Natural  children  are  the  pariahs  of 
the  world,   and  7— am  one  of  the  Brahmans." 

"But,"  persisted  Vaudemont,  "forgive  me  if  I  press  the 
question  further.  Perhaps  I  seek  from  your  wisdom  a  guide 
to  my  own  conduct.  Suppose,  then,  a  man  had  loved,  had 
wronged,  the  mother;  suppose  that  in  the  child  he  saw  one 


366  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

who,  without  his  aid,  might  be  exposed  to  every  curse  with 
which  the  pariahs  (true,  the  pariahs!)  of  the  world  are  too 
often  visited,  and  who  with  his  aid  might  become,  as  age  ad- 
vanced, his  companion,  his  nurse,  his  comforter  —  " 

"  Tush !  "  interrupted  Lilburne,  with  some  impatience ;  "  I 
know  not  how  our  conversation  fell  on  such  a  topic,  but  if 
you  really  ask  my  opinion  in  reference  to  any  case  in  practi- 
cal life,  you  shall  have  it.  Look  you,  then.  Monsieur  de 
Vaudemont,  no  man  has  studied  the  art  of  happiness  more 
than  I  have;  and  I  will  tell  you  the  great  secret, —  have  as 
few  ties  as  possible.  Nurse!  Pooh!  you  or  I  could  hire  one 
by  the  week  a  thousand  times  more  useful  and  careful  than  a 
bore  of  a  child.  Comforter!  A  man  of  mind  never  wants 
comfort.  And  there  is  no  such  thing  as  sorrow  while  we 
have  health  and  money,  and  don't  care  a  straw  for  anybody 
in  the  world.  If  you  choose  to  love  people,  their  health  and 
circumstances,  if  either  go  wrong,  can  fret  you:  that  opens 
many  avenues  to  pain.  Never  live  alone,  but  always  feel 
alone.  You  think  this  unamiable :  possibly.  I  am  no  hypo- 
crite, and,  for  my  part,  I  never  affect  to  be  anything  but  what 
I  am,  —  John  Lilburne." 

As  the  peer  thus  spoke,  Vaudemont,  leaning  against  the 
door,  contemplated  him  with  a  strange  mixture  of  interest 
and  disgust.  "And  John  Lilburne  is  thought  a  great  man, 
and  William  Gawtrey  was  a  great  rogue.  You  don't  conceal 
your  heart?  —  no,  I  understand.  Wealth  and  power  have  no 
need  of  hypocrisy :  you  are  the  man  of  vice ;  Gawtrey,  the 
man  of  crime.  You  never  sin  against  the  law;  he  was  a 
felon  by  his  trade.  And  the  felon  saved  from  vice  the  child, 
and  from  want  the  grandchild  {ijour  flesh  and  blood),  whom 
you  disown:  which  will  Heaven  consider  the  worse  man? 
No,  poor  Fanny !  I  see  I  am  wrong.  If  he  would  own  you, 
I  would  not  give  you  up  to  the  ice  of  such  a  soul.  Better  the 
blind  man  than  the  dead  heart !  " 

"Well,  Lord  Lilburne,"  said  De  Vaudemont  aloud,  shaking 
off  his  revery,  "  I  must  own  that  your  philosophy  seems  to  me 
the  wisest  for  yourself.  For  a  poor  man  it  might  be  different, 
—  the  poor  need  affection." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  367 

"Ay,  tlie  poor,  certainly,"  said  Lord  Lilburne,  with  an  a,ir 
of  patronizing  candour. 

"And  I  will  own  further,"  continued  De  Vaudemont,  "that 
I  have  willingly  lost  my  money  in  return  for  the  instruction 
I  have  received  in  hearing  you  converse. " 

"  You  are  kind ;  come  and  take  your  revenge  next  Thurs- 
day.    Adieu." 

As  Lord  Lilburne  undressed,  and  his  valet  attended  him, 
he  said  to  that  worthy  functionary, — 

"  So  you  have  not  been  able  to  make  out  the  name  of  the 
stranger, — the  new  lodger  you  tell  me  of?" 

"No,  my  lord.  They  only  say  he  is  a  very  fine-looking 
man." 

"You  have  not  seen  him?" 

"No,  my  lord.     What  do  you  wish  me  now  to  do?" 

"  Humph !  Nothing  at  this  moment !  you  manage  things  so 
badly,  you  might  get  me  into  a  scrape.  I  never  do  anything 
which  the  law  or  the  police,  or  even  the  newspapers,  can  get 
hold  of.  I  must  think  of  some  other  way.  Humph!  I 
never  give  up  what  I  once  commence,  and  I  never  fail  in  what 
I  undertake!  If  life  had  been  worth  what  fools  trouble  it 
with, — business  and  ambition, —  I  suppose  I  should  have  been 
a  great  man  with  a  very  bad  liver.  Ha !  ha !  I  alone,  of  all 
the  world,  ever  found  out  what  the  world  was  good  fori 
Draw  the  curtains,   Dykeman." 


368  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Org.    Welcome,  thou  ice  that  sitt'st  about  his  heart! 
No  heat  can  ever  thaw  thee  !  —  Ford  :  Broken  Heart. 

Nearch.     Honourable  infamy  !  —  Ibid. 

Amijc.     Her  tenderness  hath  yet  deserved  no  rigour, 
So  to  be  crossed  by  fate  ! 

Arm.     You  misapply,  sir, 
With  favour  let  me  speak  it,  what  Apollo 
Hath  clouded  in  dim  sense  !  —  Ibid. 

If  Vaudemont  had  fancied  that,  considering  the  age  and 
poverty  of  Simon,  it  was  his  duty  to  see  whether  Fanny's  not 
more  legal,  but  more  natural  protector  were,  indeed,  the  unre- 
deemed and  unmalleable  egotist  which  Gawtrey  had  painted 
him,  the  conversation  of  one  night  was  sufficient  to  make  him 
abandon  forever  the  notion  of  advancing  her  claims  upon  Lord 
Lilburne.  But  Philip  had  another  motive  in  continuing  his 
acquaintance  with  that  personage.  The  sight  of  his  mother's 
grave  had  recalled  to  him  the  image  of  that  lost  brother  over 
whom  he  had  vowed  to  watch.  And  despite  the  deep  sense  of 
wronged  affection  with  which  he  yet  remembered  the  cruel 
letter  that  had  contained  the  last  tidings  of  Sidney,  Philip's 
heart  clung  with  undying  fondness  to  that  fair  shape  associ- 
ated with  all  the  happy  recollections  of  childhood;  and  his 
conscience  as  well  as  his  love  asked  him,  each  time  that  he 
passed  the  churchyard,  "  Will  you  make  no  effort  to  obey  that 
last  prayer  of  the  mother  who  consigned  her  darling  to  your 
charge?"  Perhaps,  had  Philip  been  in  want,  or  had  the 
name  he  now  bore  been  sullied  by  his  conduct,  he  might  have 
shrunk  from  seeking  one  whom  he  might  injure,  but  could 
not  serve.  But  though  not  rich,  he  had  more  than  enough 
for  tastes  as  hardy  and  simple  as  any  to  which  soldier  of  for- 
tune ever  limited  his  desires;  and  he  thought,  with  a  senti- 
ment of  just  and  noble  pride,  that  the  name  which  Eugenie 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  369 

had  forced  upon  liim  had  been  borne  spotless  as  the  ermine 
through  the  trials  and  vicissitudes  he  had  passed  since  he  had 
assumed  it.  Sidney  could  give  him  nothing,  and  therefore  it 
was  his  duty  to  seek  Sidney  out.  Now,  he  had  always  be- 
lieved in  his  heart  that  the  Beauforts  were  acquainted  with  a 
secret  which  he  more  and  more  pined  to  penetrate.  He 
Avould,  for  Sidney's  sake,  smother  his  hate  to  the  Beauforts; 
he  would  not  reject  their  acquaintance  if  thrown  in  his  way ; 
nay,  secure  in  his  change  of  name  and  his  altered  features 
from  all  suspicion  on  their  part,  he  would  seek  that  acquaint- 
ance in  order  to  find  his  brother  and  fulfil  Catherine's  last 
commands.  His  intercourse  with  Lilburne  would  necessarily 
bring  him  easily  into  contact  with  Lilburne 's  family.  And 
in  this  thought  he  did  not  reject  the  invitations  pressed  on 
him.  He  felt,  too,  a  dark  and  absorbing  interest  in  examin- 
ing a  man  who  was  in  himself  the  incarnation  of  the  World, — 
the  World  of  Art,  the  World  as  the  Preacher  paints  it,  the 
hollow,  sensual,  sharp-witted,  self- wrapped  World,  the  World 
that  is  all  for  this  life,  and  thinks  of  no  Future  and  no  God ! 

Lord  Lilburne  was,  indeed,  a  study  for  deep  contempla- 
tion, —  a  study  to  perplex  the  ordinary  thinker,  and  task  to 
the  utmost  the  analysis  of  more  profound  reflection.  William 
Gawtrey  had  possessed  no  common  talents;  he  had  discovered 
that  his  life  had  been  one  mistake.  Lord  Lilburne 's  intellect 
was  far  keener  than  Gawtrey's,  and  he  had  never  made,  and 
if  he  had  lived  to  the  age  of  Old  Parr,  never  would  have 
made  a  similar  discovery.  He  never  wrestled  against  a  law, 
though  he  slipped  through  all  laws!  And  he  knew  no  re- 
morse, for  he  knew  no  fear.  Lord  Lilburne  had  married 
early,  and  long  survived,  a  lady  of  fortune,  the  daughter  of 
the  then  Premier, — the  best  match,  in  fact,  of  his  day.  And 
for  one  very  brief  period  of  his  life  he  had  suffered  himself  to 
enter  into  the  field  of  politics, —  the  only  ambition  common 
with  men  of  equal  rank.  He  showed  talents  that  might  have 
raised  one  so  gifted  by  circumstance  to  any  height,  and  then 
retired  at  once  into  his  old  habits  and  old  system  of  pleasure. 
"I  wished  to  try,"  said  he  once,  "if  fame  was  worth  one 
headache,  and  I  have  convinced  myself  that  the  man  who  can 
24 


370  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

sacrifice  the  bone  in  his  mouth  to  the  shadow  of  the  bone  in 
the  water  is  a  fool."  From  that  time  he  never  attended  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  declared  himself  of  no  political  opinions 
one  way  or  the  other.  Nevertheless,  the  world  had  a  general 
belief  in  his  powers,  and  Vaudemont  reluctantly  subscribed  to 
the  world's  verdict.  Yet  he  had  done  nothing,  he  had  read 
but  little,  he  laughed  at  the  world  to  its  face, —  and  that  last 
was,  after  all,  the  main  secret  of  his  ascendency  over  those 
who  were  drawn  into  his  circle.  That  contempt  of  the  world 
placed  the  world  at  his  feet.  His  sardonic  and  polished  in- 
difference; his  professed  code  that  there  was  no  life  worth 
caring  for  but  his  own  life;  his  exemption  from  all  cant,  prej- 
udice, and  disguise;  the  frigid  lubricity  with  which  he  glided 
out  of  the  grasp  of  the  Conventional,  whenever  it  so  pleased 
him,  without  shocking  the  Decorums  whose  sense  is  in  their 
ear,  and  who  are  not  roused  by  the  deed  but  by  the  noise, — 
all  this  had  in  it  the  marrow  and  essence  of  a  system  trium- 
phant with  the  vulgar;  for  little  minds  give  importance  to 
the  man  who  gives  importance  to  nothing.  Lord  Lilburne's 
authority,  not  in  matters  of  taste  alone,  but  in  those  which 
the  world  calls  judgment  and  common-sense,  was  regarded  as 
an  oracle.  He  cared  not  a  straw  for  the  ordinary  baubles 
that  attract  his  order;  he  had  refused  both  an  earldom  and 
the  garter,  and  this  was  often  quoted  in  his  honour.  But 
you  only  try  a  man's  virtue  when  you  offer  him  something 
that  he  covets.  The  earldom  and  the  garter  were  to  Lord 
Lilburne  no  more  tempting  inducements  than  a  doll  or  a  skip- 
ping-rope ;  had  you  offered  him  an  infallible  cure  for  the  gout, 
or  an  antidote  against  old  age,  you  might  have  hired  him  as 
your  lackey  on  your  own  terms.  Lord  Lilburne's  next  heir 
was  the  son  of  his  only  brother,  a  person  entirely  dependent 
on  his  uncle.  Lord  Lilburne  allowed  him  £1,000  a  year,  and 
kept  him  always  abroad  in  a  diplomatic  situation.  He  looked 
upon  his  successor  as  a  man  who  wanted  power,  but  not  incli- 
nation, to  become  his  assassin. 

Though  he  lived  sumptuously  and  grudged  himself  nothing, 
Lord  Lilburne  was  far  from  an  extravagant  man.  He  might, 
indeed,  be  considered  close;  for  he  knew  how  much  of  com- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  371 

fort  and  consideration  he  owed  to  his  money,  and  valued  it 
accordingly;  he  knew  the  best  speculations  and  the  best  in- 
vestments. If  he  took  shares  in  an  American  canal,  you 
might  be  sure  that  the  shares  would  soon  be  double  in  value; 
if  he  purchased  an  estate,  you  might  be  certain  it  was  a  bar- 
gain. This  pecuniary  tact  and  success  necessarily  augmented 
his  fame  for  wisdom. 

He  had  been  in  early  life  a  successful  gambler,  and  some 
suspicions  of  his  fair  play  had  been  noised  abroad;  but,  as 
has  been  recently  seen  in  the  instance  of  a  man  of  rank  equal 
to  Lilburne's,  though  perhaps  of  less  acute  if  more  cultivated 
intellect,  it  is  long  before  the  pigeon  will  turn  round  upon  a 
falcon  of  breed  and  mettle.  The  rumours,  indeed,  were  so 
vague  as  to  carry  with  them  no  weight.  During  the  middle 
of  his  career,  when  in  the  full  flush  of  health  and  fortune,  he 
had  renounced  the  gaming-table.  Of  late  years,  as  advancing 
age  made  time  more  heavy,  he  had  resumed  the  resource,  and 
with  all  his  former  good  luck.  The  money-market,  the  table, 
the  sex,  constituted  the  other  occupations  and  amusements 
with  which  Lord  Lilburne  filled  up  his  rosy  leisure. 

Another  way  by  which  this  man  had  acquired  reputation 
for  ability  was  this, —  he  never  pretended  to  any  branch  of 
knowledge  of  which  he  was  ignorant,  any  more  than  to  any 
virtue  in  which  he  was  deficient.  Honesty  itself  was  never 
more  free  from  quackery  or  deception  than  was  this  embodied 
and  walking  Vice.  If  the  world  chose  to  esteem  him,  he  did 
not  buy  its  opinion  by  imposture.  No  man  ever  saw  Lord 
Lilburne's  name  in  a  public  subscription,  whether  for  a  new 
church,  or  a  Bible  Society,  or  a  distressed  family;  no  man 
ever  heard  of  his  doing  one  generous,  benevolent,  or  kindly 
action ;  no  man  was  ever  startled  by  one  philanthropic,  pious, 
or  amiable  sentiment  from  those  mocking  lips.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  all  this,  John  Lord  Lilburne  was  not  only  esteemed  but 
liked  by  the  world,  and  set  up  in  the  chair  of  its  Rhadaman- 
thuses.  In  a  word  he  seemed  to  Vaudemont,  and  he  was  so 
in  reality,  a  brilliant  example  of  tlie  might  of  Circumstance, 
—  an  instance  of  what  may  be  done  in  the  way  of  reputation 
and  influence  by  a  rich,  well-born  man  to  whom  the  will  a 


372  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

kingdom  is.  A  little  of  genius,  and  Lord  Lilburne  would 
have  made  his  vices  notorious  and  his  deficiencies  glaring;  a 
little  of  heart,  and  his  habits  would  have  led  him  into  count- 
less follies  and  discreditable  scrapes.  It  was  the  lead  and  the 
stone  that  he  carried  about  him  that  preserved  his  equilib- 
rium, no  matter  which  way  the  breeze  blew.  But  all  his 
qualities,  positive  or  negative,  would  have  availed  him  noth- 
ing without  that  position  which  enabled  him  to  take  his  ease 
in  that  inn,  the  world, —  which  presented,  to  every  detection 
of  his  want  of  intrinsic  nobleness,  the  irreproachable  respec- 
tability of  a  high  name,  a  splendid  mansion,  and  a  rent-roll 
without  a  flaw.  Vaudemont  drew  comparisons  between  Lil- 
burne and  Gawtrey,  and  he  comprehended  at  last  why  one 
was  a  low  rascal  and  the  other  a  great  man. 

Although  it  was  but  a  few  days  after  their  first  introduction 
to  each  other,  Vaudemont  had  been  twice  to  Lord  Lilburne's, 
and  their  acquaintance  was  already  on  an  easy  footing,  when 
one  afternoon  as  the  former  was  riding  through  the  streets  to- 
wards H ,  he  met  the  peer  mounted  on  a  stout  cob,  which 

from  its  symmetrical  strength,  pure  English  breed,  and  ex- 
quisite grooming  showed  something  of  those  sporting  tastes 
for  which  in  earlier  life  Lord  Lilburne  had  been  noted. 

"Why,  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  what  brings  you  to  this 
part  of  the  town, —  curiosity  and  the  desire  to  explore?" 

"  That  might  be  natural  enough  in  me ;  but  you,  who  know 
London  so  well, — rather  what  brings  you  here?" 

"Why,  I  am  returned  from  a  long  ride.  I  have  had  symp- 
toms of  a  fit  of  the  gout,  and  been  trying  to  keep  it  off  by  ex- 
ercise. I  have  been  to  a  cottage  that  belongs  to  me,  some 
miles  from  town, —  a  pretty  place  enough  by  the  way;  you 
must  come  and  see  me  there  next  month.  I  shall  fill  the 
house  for  a  battue  !  I  have  some  tolerable  covers  —  you  are  a 
good  shot,  I  suppose?  " 

"I  have  not  practised,  except  with  a  rifle,  for  some  years." 

"That's  a  pity;  for  as  I  think  a  week's  shooting  once  a 
year  quite  enough,  I  fear  that  your  visit  to  me  at  Fernside 
may  not  be  sufficiently  long  to  put  your  hand  in." 

"Fernside!" 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  373 

"  Yes;  is  the  name  familiar  to  you? " 

"I  think  I  have  heard  it  before.  Did  your  lordship  pur- 
chase or  inherit  it?" 

"I  bought  it  of  my  brother-in-law.  It  belonged  to  his 
brother, —  a  gay,  wild  sort  of  fellow,  who  broke  his  neck  over 
a  six-barred  gate;  through  that  gate  my  friend  Robert  walked 
the  same  day  into  a  very  line  estate !  " 

"I  have  heard  so.  The  late  Mr.  Beaufort,  then,  left  no 
children?" 

"  Yes ;  two.  But  they  came  into  the  world  in  the  primitive 
way  in  which  Mr.  Owen  wishes  us  all  to  come,  —  too  naturally 
for  the  present  state  of  society,  and  Mr.  Owen's  parallelo- 
gram was  not  ready  for  them.  By  the  way,  one  of  them  dis- 
appeared at  Paris;  you  never  met  with  him,  I  suppose?" 

"Under  what  name?" 

"Morton." 

"Morton!  hem!     What  Christian  name?" 

"Philip." 

"Philip!  no.  But  did  Mr.  Beaufort  do  nothing  for  the 
young  men?  I  think  I  have  heard  somewhere  that  he  took 
compassion  on  one  of  them." 

"Have  you?  Ah,  my  brother-in-law  is  precisely  one  of 
those  excellent  men  of  whom  the  world  always  speaks  well. 
No;  he  would  very  willingly  have  served  either  or  both  the 
boys,  but  the  mother  refused  all  his  overtures  and  went  to 
law,  I  fancy.  The  elder  of  these  bastards  turned  out  a  sad 
fellow,  and  the  younger  —  I  don't  know  exactly  where  he  is, 
but  no  doubt  with  one  of  his  mother's  relations.  You  seem 
to  interest  yourself  in  natural  children,  my  dear  Vaudemont. " 

"Perhaps  you  have  heard  that  people  have  doubted  if  I 
were  a  natural   son?" 

"Ah,  I  understand  now.  But  are  you  going?  I  was  in 
hopes  you  would  have  turned  back  my  way,  and  —  " 

"  You  are  very  good ;  but  I  have  a  particular  appointment, 
and  I  am  now  too  late.     Good  morning,  Lord  Lilburne." 

Sidney  with  one  of  his  mother's  relations!  Returned,  per- 
haps, to  the  Mortons !  How  had  he  never  before  chanced  on 
a  conjecture  so  probable?    He  would  go  at  once!  —  that  very 


874  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

night  he  would  go  to  the  house  from  which  he  had  taken  his 
brother.  At  least,  and  at  the  worst,  they  might  give  him 
some  clew. 

Buoyed  with  this  hope  and  this  resolve,  he  rode  hastily  to 

H ,  to  announce  to  Simon  and  Fanny  that  he  should  not 

return  to  them,  perhaps,  for  two  or  three  days.  As  he  en- 
tered the  suburb,  he  drew  up  by  the  statuary  of  whom  he  had 
purchased  his  mother's  gravestone. 

The  artist  of  the  melancholy  trade  was  at  work  in  his  yard. 
"Ho,  there!"  said  Vaudemont,  looking  over  the  low  rail- 
ing; "is  the  tomb  I  have  ordered  nearly  finished?" 

"Why,  sir,  as  you  were  so  anxious  for  despatch,  and  as  it 
would  take  a  long  time  to  get  a  new  one  ready,  I  thought  of 
giving  you  this,  which  is  finished  all  but  the  inscription.  It 
was  meant  for  Miss  Deborah  Primme;  but  her  nephew  and 
heir  called  on  me  yesterday  to  say  that  as  the  poor  lady  died 
worth  less  by  £5,000  than  he  had  expected,  he  thought  a 
handsome  wooden  tomb  would  do  as  well,  if  I  could  get  rid 
of  this  for  him.  It  is  a  beauty,  sir.  It  will  look  so 
cheerful  —  " 

"Well,  that  will  do;  and  you  can  place  it  now  where  I  told 
you." 

"In  three  days,  sir." 

"So  be  it."  And  he  rode  on,  muttering,  "Fanny,  your 
pious  wish  will  be  fulfilled.  But  flowers— will  they  suit 
that  stone?" 

He  put  up  his  horse,  and  walked  through  the  lane  to 
Simon's. 

As  he  approached  the  house,  he  saw  Fanny's  bright  eyes 
at  the  window.  She  was  watching  his  return.  She  hastened 
to  open  the  door  to  him,  and  the  world's  wanderer  felt  what 
music  there  is  in  the  footstep,  what  summer  there  is  in  the 
smile,  of  Welcome! 

"My  dear  Fanny,"  he  said,  affected  by  her  joyous  greeting, 
"  it  makes  my  heart  warm  to  see  you.  I  have  brought  you  a 
present  from  town.  When  I  was  a  boy,  I  remember  that  my 
poor  mother  was  fond  of  singing  some  simple  songs,  which 
often,  somehow  or  other,  come  back  to  me,  when  I  see  and 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  375 

hear  you.  I  fancied  you  would  understand  and  like  them  as 
well  at  least  as  I  do  —  for  Heaven  knows  (he  added  to  him- 
self) my  ear  is  dull  enough  generally  to  the  jingle  of  rhyme;  " 
and  he  placed  in  her  hands  a  little  volume  of  those  exquisite 
songs  in  which  Burns  has  set  Kature  to  music. 

"Oh,  you  are  so  kind,  brother,"  said  Fanny,  with  tears 
swimming  in  her  eyes,   and  she  kissed  the  book. 

After  their  simple  meal,  Vaudemont  broke  to  Fanny  and 
Simon  the  intelligence  of  his  intended  departure  for  a  few 
days.  Simon  heard  it  with  the  silent  apathy  into  which,  ex- 
cept on  rare  occasions,  his  life  had  settled;  but  Fanny  turned 
away  her  face  and  wept. 

"It  is  but  for  a  day  or  two,  Fanny," 

"An  hour  is  very,  very  long  sometimes,"  said  the  girl, 
shaking  her  head  mournfully. 

"Come,  I  have  a  little  time  yet  left,  and  the  air  is  mild. 
You  have  not  been  out  to-day ;  shall  we  walk  —  " 

"  Hem ! "  interrupted  Simon,  clearing  his  throat,  and  seem- 
ing to  start  into  sudden  animation ;  "  had  not  you  better  settle 
the  board  and  lodging  before  you  go?" 

"  Oh,  Grandfather ! "  cried  Fanny,  springing  to  her  feet, 
with  such  a  blush  upon  her  face. 

"Nay,  child,"  said  Vaudemont,  laughingly,  "your  grand- 
father only  anticipates  me.  But  do  not  talk  of  board  and 
lodging;  Fanny  is  as  a  sister  to  me,  and  our  purse  is  in 
common." 

"I  should  like  to  feel  a  sovereign, — just  to  feel  it,"  mut- 
tered Simon,  in  a  sort  of  apologetic  tone  that  was  really  pa- 
thetic; and  as  Vaudemont  scattered  some  coins  on  the  table, 
the  old  man  clawed  them  up,  chuckling  and  talking  to  him- 
self; and  rising  with  great  alacrity,  hobbled  out  of  the  room 
like  a  raven  carrying  some  cunning  theft  to  its  hiding-place. 

This  was  so  amusing  to  Vaudemont  that  he  burst  out  fairly 
into  an  uncontrollable  laughter.  Fanny  looked  at  him,  hum- 
bled and  wondering  for  some  moments ;  and  then,  creeping  to 
him,  put  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm  and  said, — 

"Don't  laugh!  it  pains  me.  It  was  not  nice  in  Grandpapa; 
but  —  but  it  does  not  mean  anything.  It  —  it  —  don't  laugh 
—  Fanny  feels  so  sad!" 


376  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

*'  Well,  you  are  right.  Come,  put  on  your  bonnet,  we  will 
go  out." 

Fanny  obeyed;  but  with  less  ready  delight  than  usual. 
And  they  took  their  way  through  lanes  over  which  hung,  still 
in  the  cool  air,  the  leaves  of  the  yellow  autumn. 

Fanny  was  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  timidly,  "that  people  here  think 
me  very  silly?     Do  you  think  so  too?  " 

Vaudemont  was  startled  by  the  simplicity  of  the  question, 
and  hesitated.  Fanny  looked  up  in  his  dark  face  anxiously 
and  inquiringly. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you  don't  answer!  " 

"My  dear  Fanny,  there  are  some  things  in  which  I  could 
wish  you  less  childlike  and,  perhaps,  less  charming.  Those 
strange  snatches  of  song,   for  instance !  " 

"What!  do  you  not  like  me  to  sing?  It  is  my  way  of 
talking." 

"Yes;  sing,  pretty  one!  But  sing  something  that  we  can 
understand, —  sing  the  songs  I  have  given  you,  if  you  will. 
And  now  may  I  ask  why  you  put  to  me  that  question?  " 

"I  have  forgotten,"  said  Fanny,  absently,  and  looking 
down. 

Now,  at  that  instant,  as  Philip  Vaudemont  bent  over  the 
exceeding  sweetness  of  that  young  face,  a  sudden  thrill  shot 
through  his  heart,  and  he  too  became  silent,  and  lost  in 
thought.  Was  it  possible  that  there  could  creep  into  his 
breast  a  wilder  affection  for  this  creature  than  that  of  tender- 
ness and  pity?  He  was  startled  as  the  idea  crossed  him.  He 
shrank  from  it  as  a  profanation,  as  a  crime,  as  a  frenzy.  He 
with  his  fate  so  uncertain  and  chequered, — he  to  link  himself 
with  one  so  helpless,  he  to  debase  the  very  poetry  that  clung 
to  the  mental  temperament  of  this  pure  being  with  the  feel- 
ings which  every  fair  face  may  awaken  to  every  coarse  heart, 
—  to  love  Fanny!  No,  it  was  impossible!  For  what  could 
he  love  in  her  but  beauty,  which  the  very  spirit  had  forgotten 
to  guard?  And  she  —  could  she  even  know  what  love  was? 
He  despised  himself  for  even  admitting  such  a  thought;  and 
with  that  iron  and  hardy  vigour  which  belonged  to  his  mind, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  377 

resolved  to  watch  closely  against  every  fancy  that  would 
pass  the  fairy  boundary  which  separated  Fanny  from  the 
world  of  women. 

He  was  roused  from  this  self-commune  by  an  abrupt  ex- 
clamation from  his  companion. 

"  Oh,  I  recollect  now  why  I  asked  you  that  question.  There 
is  one  thing  that  always  puzzles  me, —  I  want  you  to  explain 
it.  Why  does  everything  in  life  depend  upon  money?  You 
see  even  my  poor  grandfather  forgot  how  good  you  are  to  us 
both,  when  —  when —  Ah,  I  don't  understand;  it  pains,  it 
puzzles  me ! " 

"Fanny,  look  there,  —  no,  to  the  left, — you  see  that  old 
woman  in  rags  crawling  wearily  along ;  turn  now  to  the  right, 

—  you  see  that  fine  house  glancing  through  the  trees,  with  a 
carriage  and  four  at  the  gates?  The  difference  between  that 
old  woman  and  the  owner  of  that  house  is  —  Money;  and  who 
shall  blame  your  grandfather  for  liking  Money?" 

Fanny  understood;  and  while  the  wise  man  thus  moral- 
ized, the  girl  whom  his  very  compassion  so  haughtily  con- 
temned moved  away  to  the  old  woman  to  do  her  little  best  to 
smooth  down  those  disparities  from  which  wisdom  and  mor- 
alizing never  deduct  a  grain !  Vaudemont  felt  this  as  he  saw 
her  glide  towards  the  beggar;  but  when  she  came  bounding 
back  to  him,  she  had  forgotten  his  dislike  to  her  songs,  and 
was  chanting,  in  the  glee  of  the  heart  that  a  kind  act  had 
made  glad,   one  of  her  own  impromptu  melodies. 

Vaudemont  turned  away.  Poor  Fanny  had  unconsciously 
decided  his  self -conquest ;  she  guessed  not  what  passed 
within  him,  but  she  suddenly  recollected  what  he  had  said 
to  her  about  her  songs,  and  fancied  him  displeased. 

"Ah,  I  will  never  do  it  again.    Brother,  don't  turn  away!  " 

"But  we  must  go  home.     Hark!  the  clock  strikes  seven, 

—  I  have  no  time  to  lose.  And  you  will  promise  me  never  to 
stir  out  till  I  return?  " 

"I  shall  have  no  heart  to  stir  out,"  said  Fanny,  sadly;  and 
then  in  a  more  cheerful  voice,  she  added,  "  And  I  shall  sing 
the  songs  you  like  before  you  come  back  again ! " 


378  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Well  did  they  kuow  that  service  all  by  rote; 

Some  siuging  loud  as  if  they  had  complained, 
Some  with  their  notes  another  manner  feigned. 

Chaucee:   The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale,  modernized 
by  WoRDSwoRTU.  —  Horne's  Edition. 

And  once  more,  sweet  Winanderinere,  we  are  on  the  banks 
of  thy  happy  lake !  The  softest  ray  of  the  soft  clear  sun  of 
early  autumn  trembled  on  the  fresh  waters,  and  glanced 
through  the  leaves  of  the  limes  and  willows  that  were  re- 
flected—  distinct  as  a  home  for  the  Kaiads  —  beneath  the 
limpid  surface.  You  might  hear  in  the  bushes  the  young 
blackbirds  trilling  their  first  untutored  notes;  and  the  grace- 
ful dragonfly,  his  wings  glittering  in  the  translucent  sunshine, 
darted  to  and  fro  the  reeds  gathered  here  and  there  in  the 
mimic  bays  that  broke  the  shelving  marge  of  the  grassy 
shore. 

And  by  that  grassy  shore,  and  beneath  those  shadow}'-  limes, 
sat  the  young  lovers.  It  was  the  very  place  where  Spencer 
had  first  beheld  Camilla.  And  now  they  were  met  to  say 
"Farewell!" 

"Oh,  Camilla!"  said  he,  with  great  emotion,  and  eyes  that 
swam  in  tears,  "be  firm,  be  true.  You  know  how  my  whole 
life  is  wrapped  up  in  your  love.  You  go  amidst  scenes  where 
all  will  tempt  you  to  forget  me;  I  linger  behind  in  those 
which  are  consecrated  by  your  remembrance,  which  will 
speak  to  me  every  hour  of  you.  Camilla,  since  you  do  love 
me  —  you  do,  do  you  not?  —  since  you  have  confessed  it,  since 
your  parents  have  consented  to  our  marriage,  provided  only 
that  your  love  last  (for  of  mine  there  can  be  no  doubt)  for  one 
year,  —  one  terrible  year,  —  shall  I  not  trust  you  as  truth 
itself?     And  yet  how  darkly  I  despair  at  times !  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  379 

Camilla  innocently  took  the  hands  that,  clasped  together, 
were  raised  to  her,  as  if  in  supplication,  and  pressed  them 
kindly  between  her  own. 

"Do  not  doubt  me;  never  doubt  my  affection.  Has  not  my 
father  consented?    Eeflect,  it  is  but  a  year's  delay!  " 

"A  year!  can  you  speak  thus  of  a  year, — a  whole  year? 
Not  to  see,  not  to  hear  you  for  a  whole  year,  except  in  my 
dreams!  And  if  at  the  end  your  parents  waver?  Your  father 
—  I  distrust  him  still.  If  this  delay  is  but  meant  to  wean 
you  from  me,  if  at  the  end  there  are  new  excuses  found,  if 
they  then,  for  some  cause  or  other  not  now  foreseen,  still 
refuse  their  assent?     You  —  may  I  not  still  look  to  you  ?  " 

Camilla  sighed  heavily;  and  turning  her  meek  face  on  her 
lover,  said  timidly,  "Never  think  that  so  short  a  time  can 
make  me  unfaithful,  and  do  not  suspect  that  my  father  will 
break  his  promise." 

"But,  if  he  does,  you  will  still  be  mine." 

"  Ah,  Charles,  how  could  you  esteem  me  as  a  wife  if  I  were 
to  tell  you  I  could  forget  I  am  a  daughter?  " 

This  was  said  so  touchingly,  and  with  so  perfect  a  freedom 
from  all  affectation,  that  her  lover  could  only  reply  by  cover- 
ing her  hand  with  his  kisses ;  and  it  was  not  till  after  a  pause 
that  he  continued  passionately,  — 

"You  do  but  show  me  how  much  deeper  is  my  love  than 
yours.  You  can  never  dream  how  I  love  you.  But  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  love  me  as  well,  —  it  would  be  impossible.  My 
life  from  my  earliest  childhood  has  been  passed  in  these  soli- 
tudes,—  a  happy  life,  though  tranquil  and  monotonous,  till 
you  suddenly  broke  upon  it.  You  seemed  to  me  the  living 
form  of  the  very  poetry  I  had  worshipped,  —  so  bright,  so 
heavenly;  I  loved  you  from  the  very  first  moment  that  we 
met.  I  am  not  like  other  men  of  my  age.  I  have  no  pursuit, 
no  occupation,  —  nothing  to  abstract  me  from  your  thought. 
And  I  love  you  so  purely,  so  devotedly,  Camilla.  I  have 
never  known  even  a  passing  fancy  for  another.  You  are  the 
first  —  the  only  woman  —  it  ever  seemed  to  me  possible  to 
Ipve.  You  are  my  Eve,  your  presence  my  paradise !  Think 
how  sad  I  shall  be  when  you  are  gone,  how  I  shall  visit  every 


380  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

spot  your  footstep  has  hallowed,  how  I  shall  count  every  mo- 
ment till  the  year  is  past !  " 

While  he  thus  spoke,  he  had  risen  in  that  restless  agitation 
which  belongs  to  great  emotion ;  and  Camilla  now  rose  also, 
and  said  soothingly,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  with 
tender  but  modest  frankness,  "  And  shall  I  not  also  think  of 
you?  I  am  sad  to  feel  that  you  will  be  so  much  alone,  — no 
sister,  no  brother !  " 

"Do  not  grieve  for  that.  The  memory  of  you  will  be  dearer 
to  me  than  comfort  from  all  else.     And  you  will  be  true!  " 

Camilla  made  no  answer  by  words,  but  her  eyes  and  her 
colour  spoke.  And  in  that  moment,  while  plighting  eternal 
truth,  they  forgot  that  they  were  about  to  part ! 

Meanwhile,  in  a  room  in  the  house  which,  screened  by  the 
foliage,  was  only  partially  visible  where  the  lovers  stood,  sat 
Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  and  Mr.  Spencer. 

"I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  the  former,  "that  I  am  not  insen- 
sible to  the  merits  of  your  nephew,  and  to  the  very  handsome 
proposals  you  make;  still  I  cannot  consent  to  abridge  the 
time  I  have  named.  They  are  both  very  young.  What  is  a 
year?  " 

"It  is  a  long  time  when  it  is  a  year  of  suspense,"  said  the 
recluse,  shaking  his  head. 

"  It  is  a  longer  time  when  it  is  a  year  of  domestic  dissen- 
sion and  repentance.  And  it  is  a  very  true  proverb,  — '  Marry 
in  haste  and  repent  at  leisure.'  No!  If  at  the  end  of  the 
year  the  young  people  continue  of  the  same  mind,  and  no  un- 
foreseen circumstances  occur  —  " 

"  No  unforeseen  circumstances,  Mr.  Beaufort !  —  that  is  a 
new  condition;  it  is  a  very  vague  phrase." 

"My  dear  sir,  it  is  hard  to  please  you.  Unforeseen  cir- 
cumstances," said  the  wary  father,  with  a  wise  look,  "mean 
circumstances  that  we  don't  foresee  at  present.  I  assure  you 
that  I  have  no  intention  to  trifle  with  you,  and  I  shall  be  sin- 
cerely happy  in  so  respectable  a  connection." 

"The  young  people  may  write  to  each  other?  " 

"  Why,  I  '11  consult  Mrs.  Beaufort.  At  all  events,  it  must 
not  be  very  often,  and  Camilla  is  well  brought  up,  and  will 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  381 

show  all  the  letters  to  her  mother.  I  don't  much  like  a  corre- 
spondence of  that  nature.  It  often  leads  to  unpleasant  results ; 
if,  for  instance  —  " 

"If  what?" 

"  Why,  if  the  parties  change  their  minds,  and  my  girl  were 
to  marry  another.  It  is  not  prudent  in  matters  of  business, 
my  dear  sir,  to  put  down  anything  on  paper  that  can  be 
avoided." 

Mr.  Spencer  opened  his  eyes.  "Matters  of  business,  Mr. 
Beaufort ! " 

"Well,  is  not  marriage  a  matter  of  business,  and  a  very 
grave  matter  too?  More  lawsuits  about  marriage  and  settle- 
ments, etc.,  than  I  like  to  think  of.  But  to  change  the  sub- 
ject :  you  have  never  heard  anything  more  of  those  young  men, 
you  say?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  rather  inaudibly,  and  looking 
down. 

"And  it  is  your  firm  impression  that  the  elder  one,  Philip, 
is  dead?" 

"I  don't  doubt  it." 

"That  was  a  very  vexatious  and  improper  lawsuit  their 
mother  brought  against  me.  Do  you  know  that  some  wretched 
impostor  who,  it  appears,  is  a  convict  broke  loose  before  his 
time,  has  threatened  me  with  another,  on  the  part  of  one  of 
those  yovmg  men?     You  never  heard  anything  of  it,  eh?" 

"Never,  upon  my  honour." 

"  And,  of  course,  you  would  not  countenance  so  villanous  an 
attempt?  " 

"Certainly  not." 

"Because  that  would  break  off  our  contract  at  once.  But 
you  are  too  much  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honour.  Forgive 
me  so  improper  a  question.  As  for  the  younger  Mr.  Morton, 
I  have  no  ill-feeling  against  him.  But  the  elder!  Oh,  a 
thorough  reprobate !  a  very  alarming  character !  I  could  have 
nothing  to  do  with  any  member  of  the  family  while  the  elder 
lived ;  it  would  only  expose  me  to  every  species  of  insult  and 
imposition.  And  now  I  think  we  have  left  our  young  friends 
alone  long  enough. 


382  NIGHT  AND  MOKNING. 

"But  stay,  to  prevent  future  misunderstanding,  I  may  as 
well  read  over  again  the  heads  of  the  arrangement  you  honour 
me  by  proposing.  You  agree  to  settle  your  fortune  after  your 
decease,  amounting  to  £23,000  and  your  house,  with  twenty- 
five  acres,  one  rood,  and  two  poles,  more  or  less,  upon  your 
nephew  and  my  daughter,  jointly,  —  remainder  to  their  chil- 
dren. Certainly,  without  offence,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view, 
Camilla  might  do  Letter.  Still,  you  are  so  very  respectable, 
and  you  speak  so  handsomely,  that  I  cannot  touch  upon  that 
point;  and  I  own,  that  though  there  is  a  large  nominal  rent- 
roll  attached  to  Beaufort  Court  (indeed,  there  is  not  a  finer 
property  in  the  county),  yet  there  are  many  incumbrances, 
and  ready  money  would  not  be  convenient  to  me.  Arthur  — 
poor  fellow,  a  very  fine  young  man,  sir  —  is,  as  I  have  told 
you  in  perfect  confidence,  a  little  imprudent  and  lavish.  In 
short,  your  offer  to  dispense  with  any  dowry  is  extremely  lib- 
eral, and  proves  your  nephew  is  actuated  by  no  mercenary 
feelings;  such  conduct  prepossesses  me  highly  in  your  favour 
and  his  too." 

Mr.  Spencer  bowed,  and  the  great  man  rising,  with  a  stiff 
affectation  of  kindly  affability,  put  his  arm  into  the  uncle's, 
and  strolled  with  him  across  the  lawn  towards  the  lovers. 
And  such  is  life,  —  love  on  the  lawn  and  settlements  in  the 
parlour. 

The  lover  was  the  first  to  perceive  the  approach  of  the  elder 
parties.  And  a  change  came  over  his  face  as  he  saw  the  dry 
aspect  and  marked  the  stealthy  stride  of  his  future  father-in- 
law;  for  then  there  flashed  across  him  a  dreary  reminiscence 
of  early  childhood,  —  the  happy  evening  when,  with  his  joy- 
ous father,  that  grave  and  ominous  aspect  was  first  beheld; 
and  then  the  dismal  burial,  the  funereal  sables,  the  carriage 
at  the  door,  and  he  himself  clinging  to  the  cold  uncle  to  ask 
him  to  say  a  word  of  comfort  to  the  mother,  who  now  slept 
far  away.  "Well,  my  young  friend,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  pat- 
ronizingly, "  your  good  uncle  and  myself  are  quite  agreed,  —  a 
little  time  for  reflection,  that's  all.  Oh,  I  don't  think  the 
worse  of  you  for  wishing  to  abridge  it.  But  papas  must  be 
papas." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  383 

There  was  so  little  jocular  about  that  sedate  man  that  this 
attempt  at  jovial  good-humour  seemed  harsh  and  grating,  — 
the  hinges  of  that  wily  mouth  wanted  oil  for  a  hearty  smile. 

"Come,  don't  be  faint-hearted,  Mr.  Charles.  '  Faint  heart ' 
—  you  know  the  proverb.  You  must  stay  and  dine  with  us. 
We  return  to-morrow  to  town,  I  should  tell  you  that  I  re- 
ceived this  morning  a  letter  from  my  son  Arthur,  announcing 
his  return  from  Baden,  so  we  must  give  him  the  meeting,  —  a 
very  joyful  one  you  may  guess.  We  have  not  seen  him  these 
three  years.  Poor  fellow !  he  says  he  has  been  very  ill  and 
the  waters  have  ceased  to  do  him  any  good;  but  a  little  quiet 
and  country  air  at  Beaufort  Court  will  set  him  up,  I  hope." 

Thus  running  on  about  his  son,  then  about  his  shooting, 
about  Beaufort  Court  and  its  splendours,  about  Parliament  and 
its  fatigues,  about  the'  last  French  Revolution  and  the  last 
English  election,  about  Mrs.  Beaufort  and  her  good  qualities 
and  bad  health,  —  about,  in  short,  everything  relating  to  him- 
self, some  things  relating  to  the  public,  and  nothing  that 
related  to  the  persons  to  whom  his  conversation  was  directed, 
Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  wore  away  half  an  hour;,  when  the 
Spencers  took  their  leave,  promising  to  return  to  dinner. 

"Charles,"  said  Mr.  Spencer,  as  the  boat,  which  the  young 
man  rowed,  bounded  over  the  water  towards  their  quiet  home, 
"Charles,  I  dislike  these  Beauforts!  " 

"Not  the  daughter?" 

"No,  she  is  beautiful,  and  seems  good;  not  so  handsome  as 
your  poor  mother,  but  who  ever  was?"  Here  Mr.  Spencer 
sighed,  and  repeated  some  lines  from  Shenstone. 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Beaufort  suspects  in  the  least  who 
I  am?" 

"Why,  that  puzzles  me;  I  rather  think  he  does." 

"And  that  is  the  cause  of  the  delay?    I  knew  it." 

"No,  on  the  contrary,  I  incline  to  think  he  has  some  kindly 
feeling  to  you,  though  not  to  your  brother,  and  that  it  is  such 
a  feeling  that  made  him  consent  to  your  marriage.  He  sifted 
me  very  closely  as  to  what  I  knew  of  the  young  Mortons,  — 
observed  that  you  were  very  handsome,  and  that  he  had 
fancied  at  first  that  he  had  seen  you  before." 


38i  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes;  and  looked  hard  at  me  while  he  spoke;  and  said  more 
than  once,  significantly,  '  So  his  name  is  Charles? '  He  talked 
about  some  attempt  at  imposture  and  litigation,  but  that  was, 
evidently,  merely  invented  to  sound  me  about  your  brother, 
—  whom,  of  course,  he  spoke  ill  of,  impressing  on  me  three 
or  four  times  that  he  would  never  have  anything  to  say  to 
any  of  the  family  while  Philip  lived." 

"And  you  told  him,"  said  the  young  man,  hesitatingly,  and 
with  a  deep  blush  of  shame  over  his  face,  "  that  you  were  per- 
suad — that  is,  that  you  believed  Philip  was  —  was  —  " 

"Was  dead!  Yes, — and  without  confusion;  for  the  more 
I  reflect,  the  more  I  think  he  must  be  dead.  At  all  events, 
you  may  be  sure  that  he  is  dead  to  us,  that  we  shall  never 
hear  more  of  him." 

"Poor  Philip!" 

"  Your  feelings  are  natural,  —  they  are  worthy  of  your  excel- 
lent heart ;  but  remember  what  would  have  become  of  you  if 
3'ou  had  stayed  with  him!  " 

"True!"  said  the  brother,  with  a  slight  shudder, — "a 
career  of  suffering,  crime,  perhaps  the  gibbet!  Ah,  what 
do  I  OAve  you !  " 

The  dinner-party  at  Mr.  Beaufort's  that  day  was  con- 
strained and  formal,  though  the  host,  in  unusual  good 
humour,  sought  to  make  himself  agreeable.  Mrs.  Beaufort, 
languid  and  afflicted  with  headache,  said  little.  The  two  Spen- 
cers were  yet  more  silent.  But  the  younger  sat  next  to  her 
he  loved,  and  both  hearts  were  full ;  and  in  the  evening  they 
contrived  to  creep  apart  into  a  corner  by  the  window,  through 
which  the  starry  heavens  looked  kindly  on  them.  They  con- 
versed in  whispers,  with  long  pauses  between  each;  and  at 
times  Camilla's  tears  flowed  silently  down  her  cheeks,  and 
were  followed  by  the  false  smiles  intended  to  cheer  her  lover. 

Time  did  not  fly,  but  crept  on  breathlessly  and  heavily. 
And  then  came  the  last  parting  —  formal,  cold  —  before  wit- 
nesses ;  but  the  lover  could  not  restrain  his  emotion,  and  the 
hard  father  heard  his  suppressed  sob  as  he  closed  the  door. 

It  will  now  be  well  to  explain  the  cause  of  Mr.  Beaufort's 


NIGHT  AND    MORNING.  385 

heightened  spirits,  and  the  motives  of  his  conduct  with  respect 
to  his  daughter's  suitor. 

This,  perhaps,  can  be  best  done  by  laying  before  the  reader 
the  following  letters  that  passed  between  Mr.  Beaufort  and 
Lord  Lilbunre. 

FROM   LORD   LILBURNE  TO  ROBERT  BEAUFORT,  ESQ.,   M.P. 

Dear  Beaufort,  —  I  think  I  have  settled,  pretty  satisfactorily,  your 
affair  with  your  unwelcome  visitor.  The  first  thiug  it  seemed  to  me  ne- 
cessary to  do,  was  to  learn  exactly  what  and  who  he  was,  and  with  what 
parties  that  could  annoy  you  he  held  intercourse.  I  sent  for  Sharp,  the 
Bow  Street  officer,  and  placed  him  in  the  hall  to  mark  and  afterwards  to 
dog  and  keep  watch  on  your  new  friend.  The  moment  the  latter  entered 
I  saw  at  once  from  his  dress  and  his  address  that  he  was  a  *  scamp,'  and 
thought  it  highly  inexpedient  to  place  you  in  his  power  by  any  money 
transactions.  While  talking  with  hira.  Sharp  sent  in  a  billet  containing 
his  recognition  of  our  gentleman  as  a  transported  convict. 

I  acted  accordingly ;  soon  saw,  from  the  fellow's  manner,  that  he  had 
returned  before  his  time ;  and  sent  him  away  with  a  promise,  which  you 
may  be  sure  he  believes  will  be  kept,  that  if  he  molest  you  further,  he 
shall  return  to  the  colonies,  and  that  if  his  lawsuit  proceed,  his  witness 
or  witnesses  shall  be  indicted  for  conspiracy  and  perjury.  Make  your 
mind  easy  so  far.  For  the  rest,  1  own  to  you  that  1  think  what  he  says 
probable  enough  :  but  my  object  in  setting  Sharp  to  watch  him  is  to  learn 
what  other  parties  he  sees.  And  if  there  be  really  anything  formidable 
in  his  proofs  or  witnesses,  it  is  with  those  other  parties  I  advise  you  to 
deal.  Never  transact  business  with  the  go-between  if  you  can  with  the 
principal.  Remember,  the  two  young  men  are  the  persons  to  arrange 
with  after  all.  They  must  be  poor,  and  therefore  easily  dealt  with ;  fov 
if  poor,  they  will  think  a  bird  in  the  hand  worth  two  in  the  bush  of  a 
lawsuit. 

If,  through  Mr.  Spencer,  you  can  learn  anything  of  either  of  the  young 
men,  do  so ;  and  try  and  open  some  channel  through  which  you  can  al- 
ways establish  a  communication  with  them,  if  necessary.  Perhaps,  by 
learning  their  early  history,  you  may  learn  something  to  put  them  into 
your  power. 

I  have  had  a  twinge  of  the  gout  this  morning,  and  am  likely,  I  fear, 
to'  be  laid  up  for  some  weeks.  Yours  truly, 

LiLRURNR. 

P.  S.  —  Sharp  has  just  been  here.  He  followed  the  man,  who  calls 
himself  *  Captain  Smith/  to  a  house  in  Lambeth,  where  he  lodges,  and 


38e  NIGHT  AND    MORNING. 

from  which  he  did  not  stir  till  midnight,  when  Sharp  ceased  his  watch. 
On  renewiu;,'  it  this  morning,  he  fuund  that  the  Captain  had  gone  off, 
to  what  place  Sharp  has  not  yet  discovered. 
Burn  this  immediately. 

FROM  ROBERT  BEAUFORT,  ESQ.,  M.P.,  TO  THE  LORD  LILBURNE. 
Dear  Lilburxe,  —  Accept  my  warmest  thanks  for  your  kindness; 
you  have  done  admirably,  and  I  do  not  see  that  I  have  anything  further 
to  apprehend.  I  suspect  that  it  was  an  entire  fabrication  on  that  man's 
part,  and  your  firmness  has  foiled  his  wicked  designs.  Only  think,  I 
have  discovered  —  I  am  sure  of  it  —  one  of  the  Mortons,  —  and  he,  too, 
though  the  younger,  yet  in  all  probability  the  sole  pretender  the  fellow 
could  set  up.  You  remember  that  the  child  Sidney  had  disappeared  mys- 
teriously ;  you  remember  also,  how  much  that  Mr.  Spencer  had  inter- 
ested himself  in  finding  out  the  same  Sidney.  Well,  this  gentleman  at 
the  Lakes  is,  as  we  suspected,  the  identical  Mr.  Spencer,  and  his 
soi-disant  nephew,  Camilla's  suitor,  is  assuredly  no  other  than  the  lost 
Sidney.  The  moment  I  saw  the  young  man  I  recognized  him,  for  he  is 
very  little  altered,  and  has  a  great  look  of  his  mother  into  the  bargain. 
Concealing  my  more  than  suspicions,  I,  however,  took  care  to  sound  Mr. 
Spencer  (a  very  poor  soul),  and  his  manner  was  so  embarrassed  as  to 
leave  no  doubt  of  the  matter;  but  in  asking  him  what  he  had  heard  of 
the  brothers,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  learning  that,  in  all  human  proba- 
bility, the  elder  is  dead,  —  of  this  Mr.  Spencer  seems  convinced.  I  also 
assured  myself  that  neither  Spencer  nor  the  young  man  had  the  remot- 
est connection  with  our  Captain  Smith,  nor  any  idea  of  litigation.  This 
is  very  satisfactory,  you  will  allow.  And  now,  I  hope  you  will  approve 
of  what  I  have  done.  I  find  that  young  Morton,  or  Spencer,  as  he  is 
called,  is  desperately  enamoured  of  Camilla.  He  seems  a  meek,  well- 
conditioned,  amiable  young  man  ;  writes  poetry,  —  in  short,  rather  weak 
than  otherwise.  I  have  demanded  a  year's  delay,  to  allow  mutiial  trial 
and  reflection.  This  gives  us  the  channel  for  constant  information  which 
you  advise  me  to  establish,  and  I  shall  have  the  opjjortunity  to  learn  if 
the  impostor  makes  any  communication  to  them,  or  if  there  be  any  news 
of  the  brother.  If  by  any  trick  or  chicanery  (for  I  will  never  believe 
that  there  was  a  marriage)  a  lawsuit  that  might  be  critical  or  hazardous 
can  be  cooked  up,  I  can,  I  am  sure,  make  such  terms  with  Sidney, 
through  his  love  for  my  daughter,  as  would  effectively  and  permanently 
secure  me  from  all  further  trouble  and  machinations  in  regard  to  my 
property.  And  if,  during  the  year,  we  convince  ourselves  that  after  all 
there  is  not  a  leg  of  law  for  any  claimant  to  stand  on,  I  may  be  guided 
by  other  circumstances  how  far  I  shall  finally  accept  or  reject  the  suit. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  387 

That  must  depend  on  any  other  views  we  may  then  form  for  Camilla, 
and  I  shall  not  allow  a  hint  of  such  an  engagement  to  get  abroad.  At 
the  worst,  as  Mr.  Spencer's  heir,  it  is  not  so  very  bad  a  match,  seeing 
that  they  dispense  with  all  marriage  portion,  etc.,  —  a  proof  how  easily 
they  can  be  managed.  I  have  not  let  Mr.  Spencer  see  that  1  have  dis- 
covered his  secret,  —  I  can  do  that  or  not,  according  to  circumstances, 
hereafter ;  neither  have  I  said  anything  of  my  discovery  to  Mrs.  B.  or 
Camilla.  At  present,  '  Least  said  soonest  mended. '  I  heard  from 
Arthur  to-day.  He  is  on  his  road  home,  and  we  hasten  to  town 
sooner  than  we  expected,  to  meet  him.  He  complains  still  of  his  health. 
We  shall  all  go  down  to  Beaufort  Court.  I  write  this  at  night,  the  pre- 
tended uncle  and  sham  nephew  having  just  gone.  But  though  we  start 
to-morrow,  you  will  get  this  a  day  or  two  before  we  arrive,  as  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort's health  renders  short  stages  necessary.  I  really  do  hope  that 
Arthur,  also,  will  not  be  an  invalid,  poor  fellow  I  one  in  a  family  is 
quite  enough ;  and  I  find  Mrs.  Beaufort's  delicacy  very  inconvenient,  es- 
pecially in  moving  about  and  in  keeping  up  one's  county  connections.  A 
young  man's  health,  however,  is  soon  restored.  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear 
of  your  gout,  except  that  it  carries  off  all  other  complaints.  I  am  very 
well,  thank  Heaven  ;  indeed,  my  health  has  been  much  better  of  late 
years :  Beaufort  Court  agrees  with  me  so  well  I  The  more  I  reflect,  the 
more  I  am  astonished  at  the  monstrous  and  wicked  impudence  of  that 
fellow,  —  to  defraud  a  man  out  of  his  own  property  I     You  are  quite 

right, —  certainly  a  conspiracy.  Yours  truly, 

R.  B. 

P.  S.  —  I  shall  keep  a  constant  eye  on  the  Spencers. 
Burn  this  immediately. 

After  he  had  written  and  sealed  this  letter,  Mr.  Beaufort 
went  to  bed  and  slept  soundly. 

And  the  next  day  that  place  was  desolate,  and  the  board  on 
the  lawn  announced  that  it  was  again  to  be  let.  But  thither 
daily,  in  rain  or  sunshine,  came  the  solitary  lover,  as  a  bird 
that  seeks  its  young  in  the  deserted  nest.  Again  and  again 
he  haunted  the  spot  where  he  had  strayed  with  the  lost  one, 
and  again  and  again  murmured  his  passionate  vows  beneath 
the  fast-fading  limes.  Are  those  vows  destined  to  be  ratified 
or  annulled?  Will  the  absent  forget,  or  the  lingerer  be  con- 
soled? Had  the  characters  of  that  young  romance  been  lightly 
stamped  on  the  fancy  where  once  obliterated  they  are  erased 
forever,  —  or  were  they  graven  deep  in  those  tablets  where 


388  XIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

the  writing  even  when  invisible  exists  still,  and  revives,  sweet 
letter  by  letter,  when  the  light  and  the  warmth  borrowed  from 
the  One  Bright  Presence  are  applied  to  the  faithful  record? 
There  is  but  one  Wizard  to  disclose  that  secret,  as  all  others, 
—  the  old  Gravedigger  whose  Churchyard  is  the  Earth,  whose 
trade  is  to  find  burial-places  for  Passions  that  seemed  immor- 
tal,—  disinterring  the  ashes  of  some  long-crumbling  Memory  to 
hollow  out  the  dark  bed  of  some  new-perished  Hope ;  He  who 
determines  all  things,  and  prophesies  none,  — for  his  oracles 
are  uncomprehended  till  the  doom  is  sealed;  He  who  in  the 
bloom  of  the  fairest  affection  detects  the  hectic  that  consumes 
it,  and  while  the  hymn  rings  at  the  altar,  marks  with  his 
joyless  eye  the  grave  for  the  bridal  vow.  "Wherever  is  the 
sepulchre,  there  is  thy  temple,  0  melancholy  Time! 


BOOK    V. 


Unb  ju  einc§  ©tvom§  ©cftaben 
Sam  ic^,  bcr  nadj  Movgcn  flofe. 

Schiller  :  Der  Pilgrim. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Per  ambages  et  ministeria  deorum.i  —  Petronius. 

Mr.  Roger  Morton  was  behind  his  counter  one  drizzling, 
melancholy  day.  Mr.  Roger  Morton,  alderman,  and  twice 
mayor  of  his  native  town,  was  a  thriving  man.  He  had 
grown  portly  and  corpulent.  The  nightly  potations  of  brandy 
and  water,  continued  year  after  year  with  mechanical  perse- 
verance, had  deepened  the  roses  on  his  cheek.  Mr.  Roger 
Morton  was  never  intoxicated, — he  "only  made  himself  com- 
fortable." His  constitution  was  strong;  but  somehow  or 
other,  his  digestion  was  not  as  good  as  it  might  be.  He  was 
certain  that  something  or  other  disagreed  with  him.  He  left 
off  the  joint  one  day,  the  pudding  another;  now  he  avoided 
vegetables  as  poison,  and  now  he  submitted  with  a  sigh  to 
the  doctor's  interdict  of  his  cigar.  Mr.  Roger  Morton  never 
thought  of  leaving  off  the  brandy  and  water;  and  he  would 
have  resented  as  the  height  of  impertinent  insinuation  any 
hint  upon  that  score  to  a  man  of  so  sober  and  respectable  a 
character. 

Mr.  Roger  Morton  was  seated, —  for  the  last  four  years, 
ever  since  his  second  mayoralty,  he  had  arrogated  to  himself 
the  dignity  of  a  chair.     He  received  rather  than  served  his 

1  "  Through  the  mysteries  and  ministerings  of  the  gods." 


^90  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

customers.  The  latter  task  was  left  to  two  of  his  sons.  Tot 
Tom,  after  much  cogitation,  the  profession  of  an  apothecary 
had  been  selected.  Mrs.  Morton  observed  that  it  was  a  gen- 
teel business,  and  Tom  had  alv/ays  been  a  likely  lad ;  and  Mr. 
Eoger  considered  that  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  and  a  great 
saving  to  have  his  medical  adviser  in  his  own  son. 

The  other  two  sons  and  the  various  attendants  of  the  shop 
were  plying  the  profitable  trade,  as  customer  after  customer, 
with  umbrellas  and  in  pattens,  dropped  into  the  tempting 
shelter,  when  a  man,  meanly  dressed,  and  who  was  somewhat 
past  middle  age,  with  a  careworn,  hungry  face,  entered  tim- 
idly. He  waited  in  patience  by  the  crowded  counter,  elbowed 
by  sharp-boned  and  eager  spinsters  —  and  how  sharp  the  el- 
bows of  spinsters  are,  no  man  can  tell  who  has  not  forced  his 
unwelcome  way  through  the  agitated  groups  in  a  linendraper's 
shop!  —  the  man,  I  say,  waited  patiently  and  sadly,  till  the 
smallest  of  the  shop-boys  turned  from  a  lady,  who  after  much 
sorting  and  shading  had  finally  decided  on  two  yards  of  lilac- 
coloured  penny  ribbon,  and  asked,  in  an  insinuating  profes- 
sional tone, — 

"What  shall  I  show  you,  sir?" 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  Mr.  Morton.     Which  is  he?" 

"Mr.  Morton  is  engaged,  sir.  I  can  give  you  what  you 
want." 

"No;  it  is  a  matter  of  business, —  important  business." 

The  boy  eyed  the  napless  and  dripping  hat,  the  gloveless 
hands,  and  the  rusty  neckcloth  of  the  speaker,  and  said,  as  he 
passed  his  fingers  through  a  profusion  of  light  curls, — 

"Mr.  Morton  don't  attend  much  to  business  himself  now; 
but  that 's  he.     Any  cravats,  sir?  " 

The  man  made  no  answer,  but  moved  where,  near  the  win- 
dow, and  chatting  with  the  banker  of  the  town  (as  the  banker 
tried  on  a  pair  of  beaver  gloves),  sat  still  —  after  due  apology 
for  sitting  —  Mr.  Roger  Morton. 

The  alderman  lowered  his  spectacles  as  he  glanced  grimly 
at  the  lean  apparition  that  shaded  the  spruce  banker,  and 
said, — 

"Do  you  want  me,  friend?" 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  391 

"Yes,  sir,  if  you  please; "  and  the  man  took  off  his  shabby- 
hat,  and  bowed  low. 

"Well,  speak  out.     No  begging  petition,  I  hope?" 

"No,  sir!     Your  nephews  —  " 

The  banker  turned  round,  and  in  his  turn  eyed  the  new- 
comer.    The  liuendraper  started  back. 

"  Nephews !  "  he  repeated,  with  a  bewildered  look.  "  What 
does  the  man  mean?     Wait  a  bit." 

"Oh,  I've  done!"  said  the  banker,  smiling.  "I  am  glad 
to  find  we  agree  so  well  upon  this  question :  I  knew  we  should. 
Our  member  will  never  suit  us  if  he  goes  on  in  this  way. 
Trade  must  take  care  of  itself.     Good  day  to  you!" 

"  Nephews ! "  repeated  Mr.  Morton,  rising,  and  beckoning 
to  the  man  to  follow  him  into  the  back  parlour,  where  Mrs. 
Morton  sat  casting  up  the  washing-bills. 

"Now,"  said  the  husband,  closing  the  door,  "what  do  you 
mean,  my  good  fellow?" 

"  Sir,  what  I  wish  to  ask  you  is  if  you  can  tell  me  what  has 
become  of  —  of  the  young  Beau  —  that  is,  of  your  sister's 
sons.  I  understand  there  were  two,  and  I  am  told  that  — 
that  they  are  both  dead.     Is  it  so?" 

"What  is  that  to  you,  friend?" 

"An  please  you,  sir,  it  is  a  great  deal  to  them! " 

"  Yes,  ha,  ha !  it  is  a  great  deal  to  everybody  whether  they 
are  alive  or  dead!"  Mr.  Morton,  since  he  had  been  mayor, 
now  and  then  had  his  joke.     "  But  really  —  " 

"Eoger!"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  under  her  breath,  —  "Koger!" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"Come  this  way,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  this  bill." 
The  husband  approached,  and  bent  over  his  wife. 

"  Who  's  this  man?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Depend  on  it,  he  has  some  claim  to  make,  —  some  bills  or 
something.  Don't  commit  yourself;  the  boys  are  dead  for 
what  we  know !  " 

Mr.  Morton  hemmed  and  returned  to  his  visitor. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  not  aware  of  what  has  become 
of  the  young  men." 


392  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Then  they  are  not  dead, —  I  thought  not!  "  exclaimed  the 
man,  joyously. 

*'  That 's  more  than  I  can  say.  It 's  many  years  since  I 
lost  sight  of  the  only  one  I  ever  sawj  and  they  may  be  both 
dead  for  what  I  know." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  the  man.  "  Then  you  can  give  me  no  kind 
of  —  of  —  hint  like,  to  find  them  out?" 

";N"o.     Do  they  owe  you  anything?  " 

"It  does  not  signify  talking  now,  sir.     I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Stay,  who  are  you?" 

"I  am  a  very  poor  man,  sir." 

Mr.  Morton  recoiled. 

"Poor!  Oh,  very  well,  very  well.  You  have  done  with 
me  now.     Good  day,  good  day.     I  'm  busy." 

The  stranger  pecked  for  a  moment  at  his  hat,  turned  the 
handle  of  the  door,  peered  under  his  gray  eyebrows  at  the 
portly  trader,  who,  with  both  hands  buried  in  his  pockets, 
his  mouth  pursed  up,  like  a  man  about  to  say  "No,"  fidgeted 
uneasily  behind  Mrs.  Morton's  chair.  He  sighed,  shook  his 
head,  and  vanished. 

Mrs.  Morton  rang  the  bell;  the  maid-servant  entered. 

"Wipe  the  carpet,  Jenny  —  dirty  feet!  Mr.  Morton,  it's 
a  Brussels! " 

"It  was  not  my  fault,  my  dear.  I  could  not  talk  about 
family  matters  before  the  whole  shop.  Do  you  know,  I  'd 
quite  forgot  those  poor  boys.  This  unsettles  me.  Poor 
Catherine!  she  was  so  fond  of  them.  A  pretty  boy  that 
Sidney,  too.  What  can  have  become  of  them?  My  heart 
rebukes  me,     I  wish  I  had  asked  the  man  more." 

"More!  why,  he  was  just  going  to  beg." 

"  Beg !  yes,  very  true ! "  said  JNIr.  Morton,  pausing  irreso- 
lutely; and  then,  with  a  hearty  tone,  he  cried  out,  "And, 
damme,  if  he  had  begged,  I  could  afford  him  a  shilling!  I  '11 
go  after  him."  So  saying,  he  hastened  back  through  the 
shop;  but  the  man  was  gone,  the  rain  was  falling,  j\tr.  IMorton 
had  his  thin  shoes  on.  He  blew  his  nose,  and  went  back  to 
the  counter.     But,  there,  still  rose  to  his  memory  the  pale 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  393 

face  of  his  dead  sister,  and  a  voice  murmured  in  his  ear, 
"Brother,  where  is  my  child?" 

"  Pshaw !  it  is  not  my  fault  if  he  ran  away.  Bob,  go  and 
get  me  the  county  paper." 

Mr.  Morton  had  again  settled  himself,  and  was  deep  in  a 
trial  for  murder,  when  another  stranger  strode  haughtily  into 
the  shop.  The  new-comer,  wrapped  in  a  pelisse  of  furs,  with 
a  thick  mustache,  and  an  eye  that  took  in  the  whole  shop, 
from  master  to  boy,  from  ceiling  to  floor,  in  a  glance,  had  the 
air  at  once  of  a  foreigner  and  a  soldier.  Every  look  fastened 
on  him,  as  he  paused  an  instant,  and  then  walking  up  to  the 
alderman,   said, — 

"Sir,  you  are  doubtless  >Ir.  Morton?" 
"At  your  commands,  sir,"  said  Koger,  rising  involuntarily. 
"A  word  with  you,  then,  on  business." 
"Business!"  echoed  Mr.  Morton,  turning  rather  pale,  for 
he  began  to  think  himself  haunted;    "anything  in  my  line, 
sir?    I  should  be  — " 

The  stranger  bent  down  his  tall  stature,  and  hissed  into 
Mr.  Morton's  foreboding  ear, — 
"  Your  nephews !  " 

Mr.  Morton  was  literally  dumb-stricken.  Yes,  he  certainly 
ivas  haunted !  He  stared  at  this  second  questioner,  and  fan- 
cied that  there  was  something  very  supernatural  and  unearthly 
about  him.  He  was  so  tall  and  so  dark  and  so  stern  and  so 
strange.  Was  it  the  Unspeakable  himself  come  for  the  linen- 
draper?  Nephews  again!  The  uncle  of  the  babes  in  the 
wood  could  hardly  have  been  more  startled  by  the  demand ! 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Morton  at  last,  recovering  his  dignity,  and 
somewhat  peevishly, —  "sir,  I  don't  know  why  people  should 
meddle  with  my  family  affairs.  I  don't  ask  other  folks  about 
their  nephews.  I  have  no  nephew  that  I  know  of." 
"Permit  me  to  speak  to  you,  alone,  for  one  instant." 
Mr.  Morton  sighed,  hitched  up  his  trousers,  and  led  the 
way  to  the  parlour,  where  :Mrs.  Morton,  having  finished  the 
washing-bills,  was  now  engaged  in  tying  certain  pieces  of 
bladder  round  certain  pots  of  preserves.  The  eldest  Miss 
Morton,  a  young  woman  of  five  or  six-and-twenty,  who  was 


394  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

about  to  be  very  advantageously  married  to  a  young  gentle- 
man who  dealt  in  coals  and  played  the  violin  (for  N was 

a  very  musical  town),  had  just  joined  her  for  the  purpose  of 
extorting  "The  Swiss  Boy,  with  variations,"  out  of  a  sleepy 
little  piano,  that  emitted  a  very  painful  cry  under  the  awaken- 
ing fingers  of  Miss  Margaret  Morton. 

Mr.  Morton  threw  open  the  door  with  a  grunt,  and  the 
stranger  pausing  at  the  threshold,  the  full  flood  of  sound  (key 
C)  upon  which  "  The  Swiss  Boy  "  was  swimming  along,  "  kine  " 
and  all,  for  life  and  death,  came  splash  upon  him. 

"Silence!  can't  you?"  cried  the  father,  putting  one  hand 
to  his  ear,  while  with  the  other  he  pointed  to  a  chair;  and  as 
Mrs.  Morton  looked  up  from  the  preserves  with  that  air  of 
indignant  suffering  with  which  female  meekness  upbraids  a 
husband's  wanton  outrage,  Mr.  Eoger  added,  shrugging  his 
shoulders, — 

"  My  nephews  again,  Mrs.  M. !  " 

Miss  Margaret  turned  round,  and  dropped  a  courtesy.  Mrs. 
Morton  gently  let  fall  a  napkin  over  the  preserves,  and  mut- 
tered a  sort  of  salutation,  as  the  stranger,  taking  off  his  hat, 
turned  to  mother  and  daughter  one  of  those  noble  faces  in 
which  Nature  has  written  her  grant  and  warranty  of  the 
lordship  of  creation. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  disturb  you;  but  my  business 
will  be  short.  I  have  come  to  ask  you,  sir,  frankly,  and  as 
one  who  has  a  right  to  ask  it,  what  tidings  you  can  give  me 
of  Sidney  Morton?  " 

"  Sir,  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  him.  He  was  taken 
from  my  house,  about  twelve  years  since,  by  his  brother. 
INIyself  and  the  two  Mr.  Beauforts  and  another  friend  of  the 
family  went  in  search  of  them  both.     My  search  failed." 

"And  theirs?" 

"I  understand  from  Mr.  Beaufort  that  they  had  not  been 
more  successful.  I  have  had  no  communication  with  those 
gentlemen  since.  But  that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  In  all 
probability,  the  elder  of  the  boys  —  who,  T  fear,  Avas  a  sad 
character  —  corrupted  and  ruined  his  brother;  and  by  this 
time  Heaven  knows  what  and  where  they  are." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  395 

"And  no  one  has  inquired  of  you  since, —  no  one  has  asked 
the  brother  of  Catherine  Morton,  nay,  rather  of  Catherine 
Beaufort,  where  is  the  child  intrusted  to  your  care?" 

This  question,  so  exactly  similar  to  that  which  his  sui:)er- 
stition  had  rung  on  his  own  ears,  perfectly  appalled  the 
worthy  alderman.  He  staggered  back,  stared  at  the  marked 
and  stern  face  that  lowered  upon  him,  and  at  last  cried, — 

"For  pity's  sake,  sir,  be  just!  What  could  I  do  for  one 
who  left  me  of  his  own  accord? " 

"The  day  you  had  beaten  him  like  a  dog.  You  see,  Mr. 
Morton,   I  know  all." 

"And  what  are  you?"  said  Mr.  Morton,  recovering  his 
English  courage,  and  feeling  himself  strangely  browbeaten 
in  his  own  house, —  "what  and  who  are  you,  that  you  thus 
take  the  liberty  to  catechise  a  man  of  my  character  and 
respectability?" 

"Twice  mayor  —  "  began  Mrs.  Morton, 

"Hush,  Mother!"  whispered  Miss  Margaret;  "don't  work 
him  up," 

"I  repeat,  sir,  what  are  you?" 

"What  am  I?  Your  nephew!  Who  am  I?  Before  men, 
I  bear  a  name  that  I  have  assumed,  and  not  dishonoured;  be- 
fore Heaven  I  am  Philip  Beaufort !  " 

Mrs.  Morton  dropped  down  upon  her  stool;  Margaret  mur- 
mured "My  cousin!"  in  a  tone  that  the  ear  of  the  musical 
coal-merchant  might  not  have  greatly  relished;  and  Mr. 
Morton,  after  a  long  pause,  came  up  with  a  frank  and  manly 
expression  of  joy,  and  said, — 

"Then,  sir,  I  thank  Heaven,  from  my  heart,  that  one  of 
my  sister's  children  stands  alive  before  me!" 

"And  now,  again,  I  —  I  whom  you  accuse  of  having  cor- 
rupted and  ruined  him;  him  for  whom  I  toiled  and  worked; 
him,  who  was  to  me,  then,  as  a  last  surviving  son  to  some 
anxious  father  —  I,  from  whom  he  was  reft  and  robbed,  I  ask 
you  again  for  Sidney  —  for  my  brother!  " 

"And  again  I  say  that  I  have  no  information  to  give  you 
—  that  —  Stay  a  moment,  stay.  You  must  pardon  what  I 
have  said  of  you  before  you  made  yourself  known.     I  went 


396  NIGHT   AND  MORXIXG. 

but  by«tlie  accounts  I  had  received  from  Mr.  Beaufort.  Let 
me  speak  plainly;  that  gentleman  thought,  right  or  wrong, 
that  it  would  be  a  great  thing  to  separate  your  brother  from 
you.  He  may  have  found  him  —  it  must  be  so  —  and  kept  his 
name  and  condition  concealed  from  us  all,  lest  you  should 
detect  it.     Mrs.   M.,   don't  you  think  so?" 

"I'm  sure  I'm  so  terrified  I  don't  know  what  to  think," 
said  Mrs.  Morton,  putting  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  see- 
sawing herself  to  and  fro  upon  her  stool. 

"But  since  they  wronged  you,  since  you  —  you  seem  so 
very  —  very  —  " 

"Very  much  the  gentleman,"  suggested  Miss  Margaret. 
"  Yes,  so  much  the  gentleman ;  well  off,  too,  I  should  hope, 
sir," — and  the  experienced  eye  of  Mr.  Morton  glanced  at  the 
costly  sables  that  lined  the  pelisse, —  "there  can  be  no  diflfi- 
culty  in  your  learning  from  Mr.  Beaufort  all  that  you  wish  to 
know.  And  pray,  sir,  may  I  ask,  did  you  send  any  one  here 
to-day  to  make  the  very  inquiry  you  have  made?  " 
"I?    Xo.    What  do  j^ou  mean?  " 

"Well,  well,  sit  down;  there  may  be  something  in  all  this 
that  you  may  make  out  better  than  I  can." 

And  as  Philip  obeyed,  Mr.  Morton,  who  was  really  and 
honestly  rejoiced  to  see  his  sister's  son  alive  and  apparently 
thriving,  proceeded  to  relate  pretty  exactly  the  conversation 
he  had  held  with  the  previous  visitor.  Philip  listened  ear- 
nestly and  with  attention.  Who  could  this  questioner  be? 
Some  one  who  knew  his  birth,  some  one  who  sought  him  out, 
some  one,  who  —  Good  heavens!  could  it  be  the  long-lost 
witness  of  the  marriage? 

As  soon  as  that  idea  struck  him,  he  started  from  his  seat, 
and  entreated  Morton  to  accompany  him  in  search  of  the 
stranger.  "You  know  not,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  impressed 
with  that  energy  of  will  in  which  lay  the  talent  of  his  mind, 
—  "you  know  not  of  what  importance  this  may  be  to  my  pros- 
pects, to  your  sister's  fair  name.  If  it  should  be  the  witness 
returned  at  last !  Who  else,  of  the  rank  you  describe,  would 
be  interested  in  such  inquiries?    Come!  " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  397 

"What witness?"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  fretfully.  "You  don't 
mean  to  come  over  us  with  the  old  story  of  the  marriage?" 

"Shall  your  wife  slander  your  own  sister,  sir?  A  marriage 
there  was.  God  yet  will  proclaim  the  right,  and  the  name 
of  Beaufort  shall  be  yet  placed  on  my  mother's  gravestone. 
Come ! " 

"Here  are  your  shoes  and  umbrella.  Pa,"  cried  Miss 
Margaret,   inspired  by  Philip's  earnestness. 

"My  fair  cousin,  I  guess; "  and  as  the  soldier  took  her  hand, 
he  kissed  the  unreluctant  cheek,  turned  to  the  door;  Mr. 
Morton  placed  his  arm  in  his,  and  the  next  moment  they 
were  in  the  street. 

When  Catherine  in  her  meek  tones  had  said,  "Philip 
Beaufort  was  my  husband,"  Eoger  Morton  had  disbelieved 
her;  and  now  one  word  from  the  son,  who  could,  in  compari- 
son, know  so  little  of  the  matter,  had  almost  sufficed  to  con- 
vert and  to  convince  the  sceptic.  Why  was  this?  Because — 
Man  believes  the  Strong! 


CHAPTER  II. 

Quid  Virtus  et  quid  Sapientia  possit 

Utile  proposuit  nobis  exemplar  Ult/ssemA  —  Horace. 

Meanwhile  the  object  of  their  search,  on  quitting  Mv. 
Morton's  shop,  had  walked  slowly  and  sadly  on,  through  the 
plashing  streets,  till  he  came  to  a  public-house  in  the  outskirts 
and  on  the  high  road  to  London.  Here  he  took  shelter  for  a 
short  time,  drying  himself  by  the  kitchen  fire,  with  the  license 
purchased  by  fourpennyworth  of  gin ;  and  having  learned  that 
the  next  coach  to  London  would  not  pass  for  some  hours,  he 
finally  settled  himself  in  the  ingle,  till  the  guard's  horn 
should  arouse  him.     By  the  same  coach  that  tlie  night  before 

1  "  He  has  proposed  to  us  Ulysses  as  a  useful  example  of  how  much  may 
be  accomplished  by  Virtue  and  Wisdom." 


398  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

had  conveyed  Philip  to  X ,  had  the  very  man  he  sought 

been  also  a  passenger! 

The  poor  fellow  was  sickly  and  wearied  out.  He  had  settled 
into  a  doze,  when  he  was  suddenly  wakened  by  the  wheels  of  a 
coach  and  the  trampling  of  horses.  Not  knowing  how  long  he 
had  slept,  and  imagining  that  the  vehicle  he  had  awaited  was 
at  the  door,  he  ran  out.  It  was  a  coach  coming  from  London, 
and  the  driver  was  joking  with  a  pretty  barmaid  who,  in  rather 
short  petticoats,  was  holding  up  to  him  the  customary  glass. 
The  man,  after  satisfying  himself  that  his  time  was  not  yet 
come,  was  turning  back  to  the  fire,  when  a  head  popped  itself 
out  of  the  window,  and  a  voice  cried,  "Stars  and  garters! 
Will  —  so  that's  you!  "  At  the  sound  of  the  voice  the  man 
halted  abruptly,  turned  very  pale,  and  his  limbs  trembled. 
The  inside  passenger  opened  the  door,  jumped  out  with  a  little 
carpet-bag  in  his  hand,  took  forth  a  long  leathern  purse  from 
which  he  ostentatiously  selected  the  coins  that  paid  his  fare 
and  satisfied  the  coachman,  and  then,  passing  his  arm  through 
that  of  the  acquaintance  he  had  discovered,  led  him  back  into 
the  house. 

"Will,  Will,"  he  whispered,  "you  have  been  to  the  Mortons. 
Never  moind,  let 's  hear  all.  Jenny  or  Dolly,  or  whatever 
your  sweet  praetty  name  is,  a  private  room  and  a  pint  of 
brandy,  my  dear.  Hot  water  and  lots  of  the  grocery.  That 's 
right." 

And  as  soon  as  the  pair  found  themselves,  with  the  brandy 
before  them,  in  a  small  parlour  with  a  good  fire,  the  last  comer 
went  to  the  door,  shut  it  cautiously,  flung  his  bag  under  the 
table,  took  off  his  gloves,  spread  himself  Avider  and  wider 
before  the  fire,  until  he  had  entirely  excluded  every  ray  from 
his  friend,  and  then  suddenly  turning  so  that  the  back  might 
enjoy  what  the  front  had  gained,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"Damme,  Will,  you  're  a  praetty  sort  of  a  broather  to  give 
me  the  slip  in  that  way.  But  in  this  world  every  man  for 
his-self ! " 

"I  tell  you,"  said  William,  with  something  like  decision  in 
his  voice,  "that  I  will  not  do  any  wrong  to  these  young  men 
if  they  live." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  399 

"Who  asks  you  to  do  a  wrong  to  them,  booby?  Perhaps  I 
may  be  the  best  friend  they  may  have  yet,  —  ay,  or  you  too, 
though  you  're  the  uugratefulest  whimsicallest  sort  of  a  son 
of  a  gun  that  ever  I  came  across.  Come,  help  yourself,  and 
don't  roll  up  your  eyes  in  that  way,  like  a  Muggletonian  asoide 
of  aFye-Fye!" 

Here  the  speaker  paused  a  moment,  and  with  a  graver  and 
more  natural  tone  of  voice  proceeded. 

"So  you  did  not  believe  me  when  I  told  you  that  these 
brothers  were  dead,  and  you  have  been  to  the  Mortons  to  learn 
more?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  and  what  have  you  learned?" 

"Nothing.  Morton  declares  that  he  does  not  know  that 
they  are  alive,  but  he  says  also  that  he  does  not  know  that 
they  are  dead." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  other,  listening  with  great  attention; 
"and  you  really  think  that  he  does  7iot  know  anything  about 
them?  " 

"I  do,  indeed." 

"  Hum !  Is  he  a  sort  of  man  who  would  post  down  the  rhino 
to  help  the  search?  " 

"  He  looked  as  if  he  had  the  yellow  fever  when  I  said  I  was 
poor,"  returned  William,  turning  round,  and  trying  to  catch  a 
glimpse  at  the  fire,  as  he  gulped  his  brandy  and  water. 

"  Then  I  '11  be  d— d  if  I  run  the  risk  of  calling.  I  have 
done  some  things  in  this  town  by  way  of  business  before  now; 
and  though  it's  a  long  time  ago,  yet  folks  don't  forget  a 
haundsome  man  in  a  hurry  —  especially  if  he  has  done  'em! 
Now,  then,  listen  to  me.  You  see,  I  have  given  this  matter 
all  the  'tention  in  my  power.  '  If  the  lads  be  dead, '  said  I  to 
you,  '  it  is  no  use  burning  one's  fingers  by  holding  a  candle  to 
bones  in  a  coffin.  But  Mr.  Beaufort  need  not  know  they  are 
dead,  and  we  '11  see  what  we  can  get  out  of  him;  and  if  I  suc- 
ceeds, as  I  think  I  shall,  you  and  I  may  hold  up  our  heads  for 
the  rest  of  our  life.'  Accordingly,  as  I  told  you,  I  went  to 
Mr.  Beaufort,  and  — 'Gad!  I  thought  we  had  it  a?l  our  own 
way.     But  since  I  saw  you  last,  there  's  been  the  devil  and 


400  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

all.  When  I  called  again,  Will,  I  was  shown  in  to  an  old 
lord,  sharp  as  a  gimblet.  Hang  me,  William,  if  he  did  not 
frighten  me  out  of  my  seven  senses !  " 

Here  Captain  Smith  (the  reader  has,  no  doubt,  already  dis- 
covered that  the  speaker  was  no  less  a  personage)  took  three 
or  four  nervous  strides  across  the  room,  returned  to  the  table, 
threw  himself  in  a  chair,  placed  one  foot  on  one  hob  and  one 
on  the  other,  laid  his  finger  on  his  nose,  and  with  a  significant 
wink  said  in  a  whisper,  "  Will,  he  knew  I  had  been  lagged ! 
He  not  only  refused  to  hear  all  I  had  to  say,  but  threatened 
to  prosecute,  persecute,  hang,  draw,  and  quarter  us  both,  if 
we  ever  dared  to  come  out  with  the  truth." 

"But  what's  the  good  of  the  truth  if  the  boys  are  dead?" 
said  William,  timidly. 

The  Captain,  without  heeding  this  question,  continued,  as 
he  stirred  the  sugar  in  his  glass,  "  Well,  out  I  sneaked,  and 
as  soon  as  I  had  got  to  my  own  door  I  turned  round  and  saw 
Sharp  the  runner  on  the  other  side  of  the  way.  I  felt  deuced 
queer.  However,  I  went  in,  sat  down,  and  began  to  think.  I 
saw  that  it  was  up  with  us,  so  far  as  the  old  uns  were  con- 
cerned; and  now  it  might  be  worth  while  to  find  out  if  the 
young  uns  really  were  dead." 

"  Then  you  did  not  know  that  after  all !  I  thought  so.  Oh, 
Jerry!" 

"Why,  look  you,  man,  it  was  not  our  interest  to  take  their 
side  if  we  could  make  our  bargain  out  of  the  other.  'Cause 
why?  You  are  only  one  witness;  you  are  a  good  fellow,  but 
poor,  and  with  very  shaky  nerves.  Will.  You  does  not  know 
what  them  big  wigs  are  when  a  man 's  caged  in  a  witness-box; 
they  flank  one  up  and  they  flank  one  down,  and  they  bully  and 
bother,  till  one  's  like  a  horse  at  Astley's  dancing  on  hot  iron. 
If  your  testimony  broke  down,  why  it  would  be  all  up  with 
the  case,  and  what  then  would  become  of  us?  Besides,"  added 
the  Captain,  with  dignified  candour,  "  I  have  been  lagged,  — 
it 's  no  use  denying  it;  T  am  back  before  my  time.  Inquiries 
about  your  respectability  would  soon  bring  the  bulkies  about 
me;  and  you  would  not  have  poor  Jerry  sent  back  to  that 
d — d  low  place  on  t'  other  side  of  the  herring-pond,  would  you?  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  401 

"Ah,  Jerry!  "  said  William,  kindly  placing  his  hand  in  his 
brother's,  "you  know  I  helped  you  to  escape;  1  left  all  to 
come  over  with  you." 

"So  you  did,  and  you're  a  good  fellow;  though  as  to  leav- 
ing all,  why  you  had  got  rid  of  all  first.  And  when  you  told 
me  about  the  marriage,  did  not  I  say  that  I  saw  our  way  to  a 
snug  thing  for  life?  But  to  return  to  my  story.  There  is 
a  danger  in  going  with  the  youngsters.  But  since.  Will,  — 
since  nothing  but  hard  words  is  to  be  got  on  the  other  side, 
we  '11  do  our  duty,  and  I  '11  find  them  out,  and  do  the  best  I 
can  for  us,  —  that  is,  if  they  be  yet  above  ground.  And  now 
I'll  own  to  you  that  I  think  1  knows  that  the  younger  one  is 
alive." 

"You  do?" 

Yes!  But  as  he  won't  come  in  for  anything  unless  his 
brother  is  dead,  we  must  have  a  hunt  for  the  heir.  Now  I 
told  you  that,  many  years  ago,  there  was  a  lad  with  me,  who, 
putting  all  things  together  —  seeing  how  the  Beauforts  came 
after  him,  and  recollecting  different  things  he  let  out  at  the 
time  —  I  feel  pretty  sure  is  your  old  master's  Hopeful.  I 
know  that  poor  Will  Gawtrey  gave  this  lad  the  address  of  old 
Gregg,  a  friend  of  mine.  So  after  watching  Sharp  off  the  sly, 
I  went  that  very  night,  or  rather  at  two  in  the  morning,  to 
Gregg's  house,  and  after  brushing  up  his  memory,  I  found 
that  the  lad  had  been  to  him,  and  gone  over  afterwards  to 
Paris  in  search  of  Gawtrey,  who  was  then  keeping  a  matri- 
mony shop.  As  I  was  not  rich  enough  to  go  off  to  Paris  in  a 
pleasant,  gentlemanlike  way,  I  allowed  Gregg  to  put  me  up  to 
a  noice  quiet  little  bit  of  business.  Don't  shake  your  head; 
all  safe,  — a  rural  affair!  That  took  some  days.  You  see  it 
has  helped  to  new  rig  me,"  and  the  Captain  glanced  compla- 
cently over  a  very  smart  suit  of  clothes.  "Well,  on  my  return 
I  went  to  call  on  you,  but  you  were  flown.  I  half  suspected 
you  might  have  gone  to  the  mother's  relations  here;  and  I 
thought  at  all  events  that  I  could  not  do  better  than  go  my- 
self and  see  what  they  knew  of  the  matter.  From  Avhat  you 
say  I  feel  I  had  better  now  let  that  alone,  and  go  over  to  Paris 
at  once;  leave  me  alone  to  find  out.  And  faith,  what  with 
2G 


402  NIGHT   AND  MORNIXG. 

Sharp  and  the  old  lord,  the  sooner  I  quit  England  the 
better." 

"And  you  really  think  you  shall  get  hold  of  them  after  all? 
Oh,  never  fear  my  nerves  if  I  'm  once  in  the  right;  it 's  living 
with  you  and  seeing  you  do  wrong  and  hearing  you  talk  wick- 
edly that  makes  me  tremble." 

"Bother!"  said  the  Captain,  "you  need  not  crow  over  me. 
Stand  up,  Will ;  there  now,  look  at  us  two  in  the  glass !  Why, 
I  look  ten  years  younger  than  you  do,  in  spite  of  all  my  trou- 
bles. I  dress  like  a  gentleman,  as  I  am ;  I  have  money  in  my 
pocket;  I  put  money  in  yours;  without  me  you'd  starve. 
Look  you,  you  carried  over  a  little  fortune  to  Australia,  you 
married,  you  farmed,  you  lived  honestly,  and  yet  that  d — d 
shilly-shally  disposition  of  yours,  'ticed  into  one  speculation 
to-day,  and  scared  out  of  another  to-morrow,  ruined  you !  " 

"Jerry,  Jerry!"  cried  William,  writhing;  "don't,  don't!" 

"But  it's  all  true,  and  I  wants  to  cure  you  of  preaching. 
And  then,  when  you  were  nearly  run  out,  instead  of  putting  a 
bold  face  on  it  and  setting  your  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  you 
gives  it  up,  you  sells  what  you  have,  you  bolts  over,  wife  and 
all,  to  Boston,  because  some  one  tells  you  you  can  do  better  in 
America;  you  are  out  of  the  way  when  a  search  is  made  for 
you;  years  ago  when  you  could  have  benefited  yourself  and 
your  master's  family  without  any  danger  to  you  or  me,  nobody 
can  find  you;  'cause  why,  you  could  not  bear  that  your  old 
friends  in  England,  or  in  the  colony  either,  should  know  that 
you  were  turned  a  slave-driver  in  Kentucky.  You  kick  up  a 
mutiny  among  the  niggers  by  moaning  over  them,  instead  of 
keeping 'em  to  it;  you  get  kicked  out  yourself ;  your  wife  begs 
you  to  go  back  to  Australia,  where  her  relations  will  do  some- 
thing for  you;  you  work  your  passage  out,  looking  as  ragged 
as  a  colt  from  grass;  wife's  uncle  don't  like  ragged  nephews- 
in-law,  wife  dies  broken-hearted,  and  you  might  be  breaking 
stones  on  the  roads  with  the  convicts,  if  I,  myself  a  convict, 
had  not  taken  compassion  on  you.  Don't  cry.  Will,  it  is  all 
for  your  own  good,  —  I  hates  cant !  Whereas  I,  my  own  mas- 
ter from  eighteen,  never  stooped  to  serve  any  other,  have 
dressed  like  a  gentleman,  kissed  the  pretty  girls,  drove  my 


NIGHT  AND    MORNING.  403 

pheaton,  been  in  all  the  papers  as  '  the  celebrated  Dasliing 
Jerry, '  never  wanted  a  guinea  in  my  pocket,  and  even  when 
lagged  at  last  had  a  pretty  little  sum  in  the  colonial  bank  to 
lighten  my  misfortunes.  I  escape,  I  bring  you  over;  and  here 
I  am,  supporting  you,  and  in  all  probability  the  one  on  whom 
depends  the  fate  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  the  country. 
And  you  preaches  at  me,  do  you?  Look  you.  Will;  in  this 
world,  honesty  's  nothing  without  force  of  character!  And  so 
your  health !  " 

Here  the  Captain  emptied  the  rest  of  the  brandy  into  his 
glass,  drained  it  at  a  draught,  and  while  poor  William  was 
wiping  his  eyes  with  a  ragged  blue  pocket-handkerchief,  rang 

the  bell,  and  asked  what  coaches  would  pass  that  way  to , 

a  seaport  town  at  some  distance.  On  hearing  that  there  was 
one  at  six  o'clock,  the  Captain  ordered  the  best  dinner  the 
larder  would  afford  to  be  got  ready  as  soon  as  possible;  and 
when  they  were  again  alone,  thus  accosted  his  brother,  — 

"  Now  you  go  back  to  town,  —  here  are  four  shiners  for  you. 
Keep  quiet,  don't  speak  to  a  soul;  don't  put  your  foot  in  it, 
that 's  all  I  beg,  and  I  '11  find  out  whatever  there  is  to  be 

found.    It  is  damnably  out  of  my  way  embarking  at ,  but 

I  had  best  keep  clear  of  Lunnon.  And  I  tell  you  what,  if 
these  youngsters  have  hopped  the  twig,  there  's  another  bird 
on  the  bough  that  may  prove  a  goldfinch  after  all,  — young 
Arthur  Beaufort.  I  hear  he  is  a  wild,  expensive  chap,  and 
one  who  can't  live  without  lots  of  money.  Now,  it 's  easy  to 
frighten  a  man  of  that  sort,  and  I  sha'  n't  have  the  old  lord  at 
hia  elbow." 

"But  I  tell  you  that  I  only  care  for  my  poor  master's 
children." 

"Yes;  but  if  they  are  dead,  and  by  saying  they  are  alive, 
one  can  make  old  age  comfortable,  there  's  no  harm  in  it,  eh?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  William,  irresolutely;  "but  certainly 
it  is  a  hard  thing  to  be  so  poor  at  my  time  of  life ;  and  so 
honest  a  man  as  I  've  been,  too !  " 

Captain  Smith  went  a  little  too  far  when  he  said  that  "Hon- 
esty 's  nothing  without  force  of  chai-acter."  Still  Honesty  has 
no  business  to  be  helpless  and  draggletailed;    she  must  be 


404  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

active  and  brisk,  and  make  use  of  her  wits;  or,  though  she 
keep  clear  of  the  prison,  't  is  no  very  great  wonder  if  she  fall 
on  the  parish. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Mitts.     This  Macilente,  signior,  begins  to  be  more  sociable  on  a  sndden. 

Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour, 

Punt.     Signior,  you  are  sufficiently  instructed. 
Fast.    Who,  I,  sir?— /6j  J. 

After  spending  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  vain  inquiries 
and  a  vain  search,  Philip  and  Mr.  Morton  returned  to  the 
house  of  the  latter. 

"  And  now,"  said  Philip,  " all  that  remains  to  be  done  is  this : 
first,  give  to  the  police  of  the  town  a  detailed  description  of 
the  man ;  and  secondly,  let  us  put  an  advertisement  both  in 
the  county  journal  and  in  some  of  the  London  papers  to  the 
effect  that  if  the  person  who  called  on  you  will  take  the  trouble 
to  apply  again,  either  personally  or  by  letter,  he  may  obtain 
the  information  sought  for.  In  case  he  does,  I  will  trouble 
you  to  direct  him  to  —  yes  —  to  M.  de  Vaudemont,  according 
to  this  address." 

"Not  to  you,  then?" 

"  It  is  the  same  thing, "  replied  Philip,  dryly.  "  You  have 
confirmed  my  suspicions  that  the  Beauforts  know  something 
of  my  brother.  What  did  you  say  of  some  other  friend  of  the 
family  who  assisted  in  the  search?" 

"Oh,  a  Mr.  Spencer!  an  old  acquaintance  of  your  mother's." 
Here  Mr.  Morton  smiled,  but  not  being  encouraged  in  a  joke, 
went  on,  "However,  that's  neither  here  nor  there;  he  cer- 
tainly never  found  out  your  brother,  for  I  have  had  several 
letters  from  him  at  different  times,  asking  if  any  news  had 
been  heard  of  either  of  you." 

And,  indeed,  Spencer  had  taken  peculiar  pains  to  deceive 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  405 

the  Mortons,  whose  interposition  he  feared  little  less  than 
that  of  the  Beauforts. 

"Then  it  can  be  of  no  use  to  apply  to  him,"  said  Philip, 
carelessly,  not  having  any  recollection  of  the  name  of  Spencer, 
and  therefore  attaching  little  importance  to  the  mention  of 
him. 

"Certainly,  I  should  think  not.  Depend  on  it,  Mr.  Beau- 
fort must  know." 

"True,"  said  Philip;  "and  I  have  only  to  thank  you  for 
your  kindness  and  return  to  town." 

"But  stay  with  us  this  day,  — do;  let  me  feel  that  we  are 
friends.  I  assure  you  poor  Sidney's  fate  has  been  a  load  on 
my  mind  ever  since  he  left.  You  shall  have  the  bed  he  slept 
in,  and  over  which  your  mother  bent  when  she  left  him  and 
me  for  the  last  time." 

These  words  were  said  with  so  much  feeling  that  the 
adventurer  wrung  his  uncle's  hand,  and  said,  "Forgive  me,  I 
wronged  you;  I  will  be  your  guest." 

Mrs.  Morton,  strange  to  say,  evinced  no  symptoms  of  ill- 
humour  at  the  news  of  the  proffered  hospitality.  In  fact, 
Miss  Margaret  had  been  so  eloquent  in  Philip's  praise  during 
his  absence  that  she  suffered  herself  to  be  favourably  im- 
pressed. Her  daughter,  indeed,  had  obtained  a  sort  of 
ascendency  over  Mrs.  M.  and  the  whole  house  ever  since 
she  had  received  so  excellent  an  offer.  And,  moreover,  some 
people  are  like  dogs,  —  they  snarl  at  the  ragged  and  fawn  on 
the  well-dressed.  Mrs.  Morton  did  not  object  to  a  nephew  de 
facto;  she  only  objected  to  a  nephew  in  forma  paiiperis.  The 
evening,  therefore,  passed  more  cheerfully  than  might  have 
been  anticipated,  though  Philip  found  some  difficulty  in  parry- 
ing the  many  questions  put  to  him  on  the  past.  He  contented 
himself  with  saying,  as  briefly  as  possible,  that  he  had  served 
in  a  foreign  service  and  acquired  what  sufficed  him  for  an 
independence;  and  then,  with  the  ease  which  a  man  picks  up 
in  the  great  world,  turned  the  conversation  to  the  prospects 
of  the  family  whose  guest  he  was.  Having  listened  with  due 
attention  to  Mrs.  Morton's  eulogies  on  Tom,  who  had  been 
sent  for,  and  who  drank  the  praises  on  his  own  gentility  into 


406  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

a  very  large  pair  of  blushing  ears;  also,  to  her  self-felicita- 
tions on  Miss  Margaret's  marriage;  item,  on  the  service  ren- 
dered to  the  town  by  Mr.  Eoger,  who  had  repaired  the 
town-hall  in  his  first  mayoralty  at  his  own  expense;  item, 
to  a  long  chronicle  of  her  own  genealogy,  how  she  had  one 
cousin  a  clergyman,  and  how  her  great-grandfather  had  been 
knighted;  item,  to  the  domestic  virtues  of  all  her  children; 
item,  to  a  confused  explanation  of  the  chastisement  inflicted 
on  Sidney,  which  Philip  cut  short  in  the  middle,  —  he  asked, 
with  a  smile,  what  had  become  of  the  Plaskwiths.  "Oh," 
said  Mrs.  Morton,  "  my  brother  Kit  has  retired  from  business. 
His  son-in-law,  Mr.  Plimmins,  has  succeeded." 

"Oh,  then   Plimmins  married  one  of  the  young  ladies?" 

"  Yes,  Jane,  —  she  had  a  sad  squint !  Tom,  there  is  nothing 
to  laugh  at,  —  we  are  all  as  God  made  us,  — '  Handsome  is  as 
handsome  does.'     She  has  had  three  little  uns!  " 

"Do  they  squint  too?"  asked  Philip;  and  Miss  Margaret 
giggled  and  Tom  roared  and  the  other  young  men  roared  too. 
Philip  had  certainly  said  something  very  witty. 

This  time  Mrs.  Morton  administered  no  reproof;  but  replied 
pensively,  — 

"Natur  is  very  mysterious,  — they  all  squint!  " 

Mr.  Morton  conducted  Philip  to  his  chamber.  There  it  was, 
fresh,  clean,  unaltered,  —  the  same  white  curtains,  the  same 
honeysuckle  paper  as  when  Catherine  had  crept  across  the 
threshold. 

"  Did  Sidney  ever  tell  you  that  his  mother  placed  a  ring 
round  his  neck  that  night?  "  asked  Mr.  Morton. 

"Yes;  and  the  dear  boy  wept  when  he  said  that  he  had 
slept  too  soundly  to  know  that  she  was  by  his  side  that  last, 
last  time.  The  ring  —  oh,  how  well  I  remember  it!  —  she 
never  put  it  off  till  then ;  and  often  in  the  fields,  —  for  we 
were  wild  wanderers  together  in  that  day,  —  often  when  his 
head  lay  on  my  shoulder,  I  felt  that  ring  still  resting  on  his 
heart,  and  fancied  it  was  a  talisman,  a  blessing.  Well,  well, 
good  night  to  you!  "  And  he  shut  the  door  on  his  uncle,  and 
was  alone. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  407 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  Man  of  Law,     .     .     . 

And  a  great  suit  is  like  to  bo  between  them. 

Ben  Jonson  :  Staple  of  News. 

On"  arriving  in  London,  Philip  Avent  first  to  the  lodging  he 
still  kept  there,  and  to  which  his  letters  were  directed;  and 
among  some  communications  from  Paris,  full  of  the  politics 
and  the  hopes  of  the  Carlists,  he  found  the  following  note 
from  Lord  Lilburne :  — 

Deau  Sir, — When  I  met  you  the  other  day,  I  told  you  I  had  been 
threatened  with  the  gout.  The  enemy  has  now  taken  possession  of  the 
field,  —  I  am  sentenced  to  regimen  and  the  sofa.  But  as  it  is  my  rule  ir 
life  to  make  afflictions  as  light  as  possible,  so  T  have  asked  a  few  friends 
to  take  compassion  on  me,  and  help  me  '  to  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil, ' 
by  dealing  me,  if  they  can,  four  by  honours.  Any  time  between  nine  and 
twelve  to-night  or  to-morrow  night,  you  will  find  me  at  home  ;  and  if 
you  are  not  better  engaged,  suppose  you  dine  with  me  to-day  —  or 
rather  dine  opposite  to  me— and  excuse  my  Spartan  broth.  You  will 
meet  (besides  any  two  or  three  friends  whom  an  impromptu  invitation 
may  find  disengaged)  my  sister,  with  Beaufort  and  their  daughter.  They 
only  arrived  in  town  this  morning,  and  are  kind  enough  "  to  nurse  me,  " 
as  they  call  it,  —  that  is  to  saj',  their  cook  is  taken  ill ! 
Yours, 

Lilburne. 

Park  Lane,  Sept.  - — . 

"  The  Beauforts.  Fate  favours  me, — I  will  go.  The  date 
is  for  to-day." 

He  sent  off  a  hasty  line  to  accept  the  invitation,  and  finding 
he  had  a  few  hours  yet  to  spare,  he  resolved  to  employ  them 
in  consultation  with  some  lawyer  as  to  the  chances  of  ulti- 
mately regaining  his  inheritance,  —  a  hope  which,  however 
wild,  he  had,  since  his  return  to  his  native  shore,  and  espe- 
cially since  he  had  heard  of  the  strange  visit  made  to  Roger 


408  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Morton,  permitted  himself  to  indulge.  With  this  idea  he 
sallied  out,  meaning  to  consult  Liancourt,  who,  having  a 
large  acquaintance  among  the  English,  seemed  the  best  per- 
son to  advise  him  as  to  the  choice  of  a  lawyer  at  once  active 
and  honest,  —  when  he  suddenly  chanced  upon  that  gentleman 
himself. 

''This  is  lucky,  my  dear  Liancourt.     I  was  just  going  to 
yoUr  lodgings." 

"  And  I  was  coming  to  yours  to  know  if  you  dine  with  Lord 
Lilburne,     He  told  me  he  had  asked  you.     I  have  just  left 
him.     And  by  the  sofa  of  Mephistopheles,  there  wai  the  pret- 
tiest Margaret  you  ever  beheld." 
"Indeed!     Who?" 

"  He  called  her  his  niece ;  but  I  should  doubt  if  he  had  any 
relation  on  this  side  the  Styx  so  human  as  a  niece." 
"You  seem  to  have  no  great  predilection  for  our  host." 
"  My  dear  Vaudemont,  between  our  blunt,  soldierly  natures 
and  those  wily,  icy,  sneering  intellects  there  is  the  antipathy 
of  the  dog  to  the  cat." 

"Perhaps  so  on  our  side,  not  on  his  —  or  why  does  he 
invite  us?" 

"London  is  empty;  there  is  no  one  else  to  ask.  We  are 
new  faces,  new  minds  to  him.  We  amuse  him  more  than  the 
hackneyed  comrades  he  has  worn  out.  Besides  he  plays  — 
and  you  too.     Fie  on  you !  " 

"  Liancourt,  I  had  two  objects  in  knowing  that  man,  and  I 
pay  to  the  toll  for  the  bridge.  When  I  cease  to  want  the  pas- 
sage, I  shall  cease  to  pay  the  toll." 

"But  the  bridge  may  be  a  drawbridge,  and  the  moat  is 
devilish  deep  below.  Without  metaphor,  that  man  may  ruin 
you  before  you  know  where  you  are." 

"Bah!  I  have  my  eyes  open.  I  know  how  much  to  spend 
on  the  rogue  whose  service  I  hire  as  a  lackey's;  and  I  know 
also  where  to  stop.  Liancourt,"  he  added,  after  a  short  pause, 
and  in  a  tone  deep  with  suppressed  passion,  "  when  I  first  saw 
that  man,  I  thought  of  appealing  to  his  heart  for  one  who  has 
a  claim  on  it.  That  was  a  vain  hope.  And  then  there  came 
upon  me  a  sterner  and  deadlier  thought,  —  the  scheme  of  the 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  409 

Avenger!  This  Lilburne — this  rogue  whom  the  world  sets 
up  to  worship  —  ruined,  body  and  soul  ruined,  one  whose 
name  the  world  gibbets  with  scorn!  Well,  I  thought  to 
avenge  that  man.  In  his  own  house,  amidst  you  all,  I 
thought  to  detect  the  sharper,  and  brand  the  cheat ! " 

"  You  startle  me !  It  has  been  whispered,  indeed,  that  Lord 
Lilburne  is  dangerous,  —  but  skill  is  dangerous.  To  cheat! 
an  English  gentleman!  a  nobleman!  impossible!  " 

"  Whether  he  do  or  not, "  returned  Vaudemont,  in  a  calmer 
tone,  "  I  have  foregone  the  vengeance,  because  he  is  —  " 

"Is  what?" 

"No  matter,"  said  Vaudemont  aloud,  but  he  added  to  him- 
self, "  Because  he  is  the  grandfather  of  Fanny !  " 

"You  are  very  enigmatical  to-day." 

"  Patience,  Liancourt ;  I  may  solve  all  the  riddles  that  make 
up  my  life,  yet.  Bear  with  me  a  little  longer.  And  now  can 
you  help  me  to  a  lawyer,  —  a  man  experienced,  indeed,  and 
of  repute,  but  young,  active,  not  overladen  with  business.  I 
want  his  zeal  and  his  time  for  a  hazard  that  your  monopolists 
of  clients  may  not  deem  worth  their  devotion." 

"  I  can  recommend  you,  then,  the  very  man  you  require.  I 
had  a  suit  some  years  ago  at  Paris,  for  which  English  wit- 
nesses were  necessary.  My  avocat  employed  a  solicitor  here 
whose  activity  in  collecting  my  evidence  gained  my  cause.  I 
will  answer  for  his  diligence  and  his  honesty." 

"His  address?" 

"  Mr.  Barlow,  somewhere  by  the  Strand,  —  let  me  see  — 
Essex  —  yes,  Essex  Street." 

"tf hen  good-by  to  you  for  the  present.  You  dine  at  Lord 
Lilburne's  too?" 

"Yes.     Adieu  till  then." 

Vaudemont  was  not  long  before  he  arrived  at  Mr.  Barlow's. 
A  brass-plate  announced  to  him  the  house.  He  was  shown  at 
once  into  a  parlour,  where  he  saw  a  man  whom  lawyers  would 
call  young  and  spinsters  middle-aged, — namely,  about  two- 
and-forty, — with  a  bold,  resolute,  intelligent  countenance, 
and  that  steady,  calm,  sagacious  eye,  which  inspires  at  once 
confidence  and  esteem. 


410  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

Vaudemont  scanned  him  with  the  look  of  one  who  has  been 
accustomed  to  judge  mankind  — as  a  scholar  does  books  — 
with  rapidity  because  with  practice.  He  had  at  first  resolved 
to  submit  to  him  the  heads  of  his  case  without  mentioning 
names,  and,  in  fact,  he  so  commenced  his  narrative ;  but  by  de- 
grees, as  he  perceived  how  much  his  own  earnestness  arrested 
and  engrossed  the  interest  of  his  listener,  he  warmed  into 
fuller  confidence,  and  ended  by  a  full  disclosure,  and  a  cau- 
tion as  to  the  profoundest  secrecy  in  case,  if  there  were  no 
hope  to  recover  his  rightful  name,  he  might  yet  wish  to 
retain,  unannoyed  by  curiosity  or  suspicion,  that  by  which  he 
was  not  discreditably  known. 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Barlow,  after  assuring  him  of  the  most 
scrupulous  discretion,  —  "  sir,  I  have  some  recollection  of  the 
trial  instituted  by  your  mother,  Mrs.  Bemifort" —  and  the 
slight  emphasis  he  laid  on  that  name  was  the  most  grateful 
compliment  he  could  have  paid  to  the  truth  of  Philip's  recital. 
"My  impression  is  that  it  was  managed  in  a  very  slovenly 
manner  by  her  lawyer;  and  some  of  his  oversights  we  may 
repair  in  a  suit  instituted  by  yourself.  But  it  would  be 
absurd  to  conceal  from  you  the  great  difficulties  that  beset  us. 
Your  mother's  suit,  designed  to  establish  her  own  rights,  was 
far  easier  than  that  which  you  must  commence,  —  namely,  an 
action  for  ejectment  against  a  man  who  has  been  some  years 
in  undisturbed  possession.  Of  course,  until  the  missing  wit- 
ness is  found  out,  it  would  be  madness  to  commence  litiga- 
tion. And  the  question,  then,  will  be,  how  far  that  witness 
will  suffice?  It  is  true  that  one  witness  of  a  marriage,  if  the 
others  are  dead,  is  held  sufficient  by  law ;  but  I  need  not  !«dd, 
that  that  witness  must  be  thoroughly  credible.  In  suits  for 
real  property,  very  little  documentary  or  secondary  evidence 
is  admitted.  I  doubt  even  whether  the  certificate  of  the  mar- 
riage on  which  —  in  the  loss  or  destruction  of  the  register  — 
you  lay  so  much  stress,  would  be  available  in  itself.  But  if 
a7i  examined  copy,  it  becomes  of  the  last  importance,  for  it 
will  then  inform  us  of  the  name  of  the  person  who  extracted 
and  examined  it.  Heaven  grant  it  may  not  have  been  the 
clergyman  himself  who  performed  the  ceremony,  and  who, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  411 

you  say,  is  dead;  if  some  one  else,  we  should  then  have  a 
second,  no  doubt  credible  and  most  valuable  witness.  The 
document  would  thus  become  available  as  proof,  and,  I  think, 
that  we  should  not  fail  to  establish  our  case." 

"But  this  certificate,  — how  is  it  ever  to  be  found?  I  told 
you  we  had  searched  everywhere  in  vain." 

"  True ;  but  you  say  that  your  mother  always  declared  that 
the  late  Mr.  Beaufort  had  so  solemnly  assured  hei',  even  just 
prior  to  his  decease,  that  it  was  in  existence,  that  I  have  no 
doubt  as  to  the  fact.  It  may  be  possible,  but  it  is  a  terrible 
insinuation  to  make,  that  if  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort,  in  examin- 
ing the  papers  of  the  deceased,  chanced  upon  a  document  so 
important  to  him,  he  abstracted  or  destroyed  it.  If  this 
should  not  have  been  the  case  (and  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort's 
moral  character  is  unspotted,  and  we  have  no  right  to  sup- 
pose it),  the  probability  is,  either  that  it  was  intrusted  to 
some  third  person,  or  placed  in  some  hidden  drawer  or  de- 
posit, the  secret  of  which  your  father  never  disclosed.  Who 
has  purchased  the  house  you  lived  in?" 

"Fernside?  Lord  Lilburne.  Mrs.  Robert  Beaufort's 
brother." 

"Humph!  Probably,  then,  he  took  the  furniture  and  all. 
Sir,  this  is  a  matter  that  requires  some  time  for  close  consid- 
eration. With  your  leave,  I  will  not  only  insert  in  the  Lon- 
don papers  an  advertisement  to  the  effect  that  you  suggested 
to  Mr.  Roger  Morton  (in  case  you  should  have  made  a  right 
conjecture  as  to  the  object  of  the  man  who  applied  to  him), 
but  I  will  also  advertise  for  the  witness  himself.  William 
Smith,  you  say,  his  name  is.  Did  the  lawyer  employed  by 
Mrs.  Beaufort  send  to  inquire  for  him  in  the  colony?" 

"  ]Sro ;  I  fear  there  could  not  have  been  time  for  that.  My 
mother  was  so  anxious  and  eager,  and  so  convinced  of  the  jus- 
tice of  her  case  —  " 

"  That 's  a  pity;  her  lawyer  must  have  been  a  sad  driveller." 

"Besides,  now  I  remember,  inquiry  was  made  of  his  rela- 
tions in  England.  His  father,  a  farmer,  was  then  alive ;  the 
answer  was  that  he  had  certainly  left  Australia.  His  last  let- 
ter, written  two  years  before  that  date,  containing  a  request 


412  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

for  money,  which,  the  father,  himself  made  a  bankrupt  by 
reverses,  coukl  not  give,  had  stated  that  he  was  about  to  seek 
his  fortune  elsewhere.  Since  then  they  had  heard  nothing  of 
him." 

"  Ahem !  Well,  you  will  perhaps  let  me  know  where  any 
relations  of  his  are  yet  to  be  found,  and  I  will  look  up  the 
former  suit,  and  go  into  the  whole  case  without  delay.  In  the 
mean  time,  you  do  right,  sir,  —  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  it, 
—  not  to  disclose  either  your  own  identity  or  a  hint  of  your 
intentions.  It  is  no  use  putting  suspicion  on  its  guard.  Ajid 
my  search  for  this  certificate  must  be  managed  with  the  great- 
est address.  But,  by  the  way  —  speaking  of  identity  —  there 
can  be  no  difficulty,  I  hope,  in  proving  yours." 

Philip  was  startled.     "Why,  I  am  greatly  altered." 

"  But  probably  your  beard  and  mustache  may  contribute  to 
that  change;  and  doubtless  in  the  village  where  you  lived 
there  would  be  many  with  whom  you  were  in  sufficient  inter- 
course, and  on  whose  recollection,  by  recalling  little  anecdotes 
and  circumstances  with  which  no  one  but  yourself  could  be 
acquainted,  your  features  would  force  themselves  along  with 
the  moral  conviction  that  the  man  who  spoke  to  them  could  be 
no  other  but  Philip  Morton  —  or  rather  Beaufort." 

"  You  are  right ;  there  must  be  many  such.  There  was  not 
a  cottage  in  the  place  where  I  and  my  dogs  were  not  familiar 
and  half  domesticated." 

"  All 's  right,  so  far,  then.  But  I  repeat,  we  must  not  be 
too  sanguine.     Law  is  not  justice  —  " 

"But  God  is,"  said  Philip;  and  he  left  the  room. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  413 


CHAPTER   V. 

Volpone.    A  little  in  a  mist,  but  uot  dejected  ; 
Never  —  but  still  myself. 

Ben  Jonson  :   Volpone, 

Peregrine.    Am  I  enough  disguised  ? 

Mer.     Ay,  I  warrant  you. 

Per.     Save  you,  fair  lady.  —  Ibid. 

It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good.  The  ill  wind 
that  had  blown  gout  to  Lord  Lilburne,  had  blown  Lord 
Lilburue  away  from  the  injury  he  had  meditated  against  what 
he  called  "the  object  of  his  attachment."  How  completely 
and  entirely,  indeed,  the  state  of  Lord  Lilburne's  feelings  de- 
pended on  the  state  of  his  health,  may  be  seen  in  the  answer 
he  gave  to  his  valet,  when,  the  morning  after  the  first  attack 
of  the  gout,  that  worthy  person,  by  way  of  cheering  his  mas- 
ter, proposed  to  ascertain  something  as  to  the  movements  of 
one  with  whom  Lord  Lilburne  professed  to  be  so  violently  in 
love.  "Confound  you,  Dykeman!"  exclaimed  the  invalid, 
"why  do  you  trouble  me  about  women  when  I  'm  in  this  con- 
dition? I  don't  care  if  they  were  all  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea!    Reach  me  the  colchicum !    I  must  keep  my  mind  calm." 

Whenever  tolerably  well.  Lord  Lilburne  was  careless  of 
his  health ;  the  moment  he  was  ill,  Lord  Lilburne  paid  him- 
self the  greatest  possible  attention.  Though  a  man  of  firm 
nerves,  in  youth  of  remarkable  daring,  and  still,  though  no 
longer  rash,  of  sufiicient  personal  courage,  he  was  by  no 
means  fond  of  the  thought  of  death, — that  is,  of  his  oitm 
death.  Not  that  he  was  tormented  by  any  religious  appre- 
hensions of  the  Dread  Unknown,  but  simply  because  the  only 
life  of  which  he  had  any  experience  seemed  to  him  a  pecu- 
liarly pleasant  thing.  He  had  a  sort  of  instinctive  persuasion 
that  John  Lord  Lilburne  would  not  be  better  off  anywhere 
else.      Always   disliking  solitude,  he  disliked  it  more  than 


414  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

ever  when  he  -^-as  ill,  and  he  therefore  welcomed  the  visit  of 
his  sister  and  the  gentle  hand  of  his  pretty  niece.  As  for 
Beaufort,  he  bored  the  suif erer ;  and  when  that  gentleman  on 
his  arrival,  shutting  out  his  wife  and  daughter,  whispered  to 
Lilburne,  '"'Anymore  news  of  that  impostor?"  Lilburne  an- 
swered peevishly,  "I  never  talk  about  business  when  I  have 
the  gout !  I  have  set  Sharp  to  keep  a  look-out  for  him,  but  he 
has  learned  nothing  as  yet.  And  now  go  to  your  club.  You 
are  a  worthy  creature,  but  too  solemn  for  my  spirits  just  at 
this  moment.  I  have  a  few  people  coming  to  dine  with  me, 
your  wife  will  do  the  honours,  and  —  you  can  come  in  the 
evening," 

Though  Mr.  Kobert  Beaufort's  sense  of  importance  swelled 
and  chafed  at  this  very  unceremonious  eoiige,  he  forced  a 
smile,   and  said, — 

"Well,  it  is  no  wonder  you  are  a  little  fretful  with  the 
gout.  I  have  plenty  to  do  in  town,  and  Mrs.  Beaufort  and 
Camilla  can  come  back  without  waiting  for  me." 

"Why,  as  your  cook  is  ill  and  they  can't  dine  at  a  club, 
you  may  as  well  leave  them  here  till  I  am  a  little  better;  not 
that  I  care,  for  I  can  hire  a  better  nurse  than  either  of  them." 

"  My  dear  Lilburne,  don't  talk  of  hiring  nurses ;  certainly, 
I  am  too  happy  if  they  can  be  of  comfort  to  you." 

"Ko!  on  second  thoughts,  you  may  take  back  your  wife,— 
she  's  always  talking  of  her  own  complaints,— and  leave  me 
Camilla;  you  can't  want  her  for  a  few  days." 

"  Just  as  you  like.  And  you  really  think  I  have  managed 
as  well  as  I  could  about  this  young  man,  eh?  " 

"Yes,  yes!  And  so  you  go  to  Beaufort  Court  in  a  few 
days?  " 

"I  propose   doing  so.     I  wish  you  were  well  enough  to 

come." 

"Urn!  Chambers  says  that  it  would  be  a  very  good  air  for 
me,— better  than  Fernside;  and  as  to  my  castle  in  the  north, 
I  would  as  soon  go  to  Siberia.  Well,  if  I  get  better,  I  will 
pay  you  a  visit,  only  you  always  have  such  a  stupid  set  of 
respectable  people  about  you.  I  shock  them,  and  they 
oppress  me." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  415 

"Why,  as  I  hope  soon  to  see  Arthur,  I  shall  make  it  as 
agreeable  to  him  as  I  can,  and  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged 
to  you  if  you  would  invite  a  few  of  your  own  friends." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  good  fellow,  Beaufort,  and  I  will  take  you 
at  your  word;  and  since  one  good  turn  deserves  another,  I 
have  now  no  scruple  in  telling  you  that  I  feel  quite  sure  that 
you  will  have  no  further  annoyance  from  this  troublesome 
witness-monger." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Beaufort,  "I  may  pick  up  a  better 
match  for  Camilla!     Good-by,   my  dear  Lilburne." 

"Form  and  Ceremony  of  the  world!"  snarled  the  peer,  as 
the  door  closed  on  his  brother-in-law,  "ye  make  little  men 
very  moral,   and  not  a  bit  the  better  for  being  so!" 

It  so  happened  that  Vaudemont  arrived  before  any  of  the 
other  guests  that  day,  and  during  the  half  hour  which  Dr. 
Chambers  assigned  to  his  illustrious  patient,  so  that  when  he 
entered  there  were  only  Mrs.  Beaufort  and  Camilla  in  the 
drawing-room. 

Vaudemont  drew  back  involuntarily  as  he  recognized  in 
the  faded  countenance  of  the  elder  lady  featj^es  associated 
with  one  of  the  dark  passages  in  his  earlier  life;  but  Mrs. 
Beaufort's  gracious  smile,  and  urbane,  though  languid,  wel- 
come, sufficed  to  assure  him  that  the  recognition  was  not 
mutual.  He  advanced,  and  again  stopped  short,  as  his  eye 
fell  upon  that  fair  and  still  childlike  form,  which  had  once 
knelt  by  his  side  and  pleaded  with  the  orphan  for  his  brother. 
W^hile  he  spoke  to  her,  many  recollections,  some  dark  and 
stern  —  but  those,  at  least,  connected  with  Camilla  soft  and 
gentle  —  thrilled  through  his  heart.  Occupied  as  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings  necessarily  were  with  Sidney,  there  was 
something  in  Vaudemont's  appearance,  his  manner,  his  voice, 
which  forced  upon  Camilla  a  strange  and  undefined  interest; 
and  even  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  roused  from  her  customary  apa- 
thy, as  she  glanced  at  that  dark  and  commanding  face  with 
something  between  admiration  and  fear.  Vaudemont  had 
scarcely,  however,  spoken  ten  words,  when  some  other  guests 
were  announced;  and  Lord  Lilburne  was  wheeled  in  upon  his 
sofa  shortly  afterwards.      Vaudemont  continued,   however, 


416  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

seated  next  to  Camilla,  and  the  embarrassment  he  had  at  first 
felt  disappeared.  He  possessed,  when  he  pleased,  that  kind 
of  eloquence  which  belongs  to  men  who  have  seen  much  and 
felt  deeply,  and  whose  talk  has  not  been  frittered  down  to  the 
commonplace  jargon  of  the  world.  His  very  phraseology  was 
distinct  and  peculiar,  and  he  had  that  rarest  of  all  charms  in 
polished  life, —  originality  both  of  thought  and  of  manner. 
Camilla  blushed  when  she  found  at  dinner  that  he  placed 
himself  by  her  side.  That  evening  De  Vaudemont  excused 
himself  from  playing,  but  the  table  was  easily  made  without 
him,  and  still  he  continued  to  converse  with  the  daughter  of 
the  man  whom  he  held  as  his  worst  foe.  By  degrees,  he 
turned  the  conversation  into  a  channel  that  might  lead  him 
to  the  knowledge  he  sought. 

"It  was  my  fate,"  said  he,  "once  to  become  acquainted  with 
an  intimate  friend  of  the  late  Mr.  Beaufort.  Will  you  par- 
don me  if  I  venture  to  fulfil  a  promise  I  made  to  him,  and 
ask  you  to  inform  me  what  has  become  of  a  —  a  —  that  is,  of 
Sidney  Morton?  " 

"Sidney  M(^ton!  I  don't  even  remember  the  name.  Oh, 
yes !  I  have  heard  it, "  added  Camilla,  innocently,  and  with  a 
candour  that  showed  how  little  she  knew  of  the  secrets  of  the 
family ;  "  he  was  one  of  two  poor  boys  in  whom  my  brother 
felt  a  deep  interest,  —  some  relations  to  my  uncle.  Yes, 
yes!  I  remember  now.  I  never  knew  Sidney,  but  I  once  did 
see  his  brother." 

"Indeed!  and  you  remember  —  " 

"  Yes !  I  was  very  young  then.  I  scarcely  recollect  what 
passed,  it  was  all  so  confused  and  strange ;  but  I  know  that 
I  made  Papa  very  angry,  and  I  was  told  never  to  mention  the 
name  of  Morton  again.     I  believe  they  behaved  very  ill  to 


"And  you  never  learned  —  never!  — the  fate  of  either  — of 
Sidney?" 

"Never! " 

"  But  your  father  must  know?  " 

"I  think  not;  but  tell  me,"  said  Camilla,  with  girlish  and 
unaffected  innocence,  "I  have  always  felt  anxious  to  know, — 
what  and  who  were  those  poor  boys?" 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  417 

What  and  who  were  they?  So  deep,  then,  was  the  stain 
upon  their  name,  that  the  modest  mother  and  the  decorous 
father  had  never  even  said  to  that  young  girl,  "They  are 
your  cousins, —  the  children  of  the  man  in  whose  gold  we 
revel ! " 

Philip  bit  his  lip,  and  the  spell  of  Camilla's  presence  seemed 
vanished.  He  muttered  some  inaudible  answer,  turned  away 
to  the  card-table,  and  Liancourt  took  the  chair  he  had  left 
vacant. 

"And  how  does  Miss  Beaufort  like  my  friend  Vaudemont? 
I  assure  you  that  I  have  seldom  seen  him  so  alive  to  the  fas- 
cination of  female  beauty !  " 

"Oh,"  said  Camilla,  with  her  silver  laugh,  "your  nation 
spoils  us  for  our  own  countrymen.  You  forget  how  little  we 
are  accustomed  to  flattery. " 

"Flattery!  what  truth  couW.  flatter  on  the  lips  of  an  exile? 
But  you  don't  answer  my  question, — what  think  you  of 
Vaudemont?     Few  are  more  admired.     He  is  handsome! " 

"Is  he?"  said  Camilla,  and  she  glanced  at  Vaudemont,  as 
he  stood  at  a  little  distance,  thoughtful  and  abstracted. 
Every  girl  forms  to  herself  some  untold  dream  of  that  which 
she  considers  fairest;  and  Vaudemont  had  not  the  delicate 
and  faultless  beauty  of  Sidney.  There  was  nothing  that  cor- 
responded to  her  ideal  in  his  marked  features  and  lordly 
shape!  But  she  owned  reluctantly  to  herself  that  she  had 
seldom  seen  among  the  trim  gallants  of  everyday  life  a  form 
so  striking  and  impressive.  The  air,  indeed,  was  profes- 
sional,—  the  most  careless  glance  could  detect  the  soldier. 
But  it  seemed  the  soldier  of  an  elder  age  or  a  wilder  clime. 
He  recalled  to  her  those  heads  which  she  had  seen  in  the 
Beaufort  Gallery  and  other  Collections  yet  more  celebrated, 
—  portraits  by  Titian  of  those  warrior  statesmen  who  lived  in 
the  old  Eepublics  of  Italy  in  a  perpetual  struggle  with  their 
kind,  images  of  dark,  resolute,  earnest  men.  Even  whatever 
was  intellectual  in  his  countenance  spoke,  as  in  those  por- 
traits, of  a  mind  sharpened  rather  in  active  than  in  studious 
life, —  intellectual,  not  from  the  pale  hues,  the  worn  exhaus- 
tion, and  the  sunken  cheek  of  the  bookman  and  dreamer,  but 

27 


418  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

from  its  collected  and  stern  repose,  the  calm  deptli  that  lay 
beneath  the  lire  of  the  eyes,  and  the  strong  will  that  spoke  in 
the  close,  full  lips,  and  the  high  but  not  cloudless  forehead. 

And,  as  she  gazed,  Vaudemont  turned  round ;  her  eyes  fell 
beneath  his,  and  she  felt  angry  with  herself  that  she  blushed. 
Vaudemont  saw  the  downcast  eye,  he  saw  the  blush,  and  the 
attraction  of  Camilla's  presence  was  restored.  He  would 
have  approached  her,  but  at  that  moment  Mr.  Beaufort  him- 
self entered,  and  his  thoughts  went  again  into  a  darker 
channel. 

"Yes,"  said  Liancourt,  "you  must  allow  Vaudemont  looks 
what  he  is,  —  a  noble  fellow  and  a  gallant  soldier.  Did  you 
never  hear  of  his  battle  with  the  tigress?  It  made  a  noise  in 
India.     I  must  tell  it  you  as  I  have  heard  it." 

And  while  Liancourt  was  narrating  the  adventure,  what- 
ever it  was,  to  which  he  referred,  the  card-table  was  broken 
up,  and  Lord  Lilburne,  still  reclining  on  his  sofa,  lazily  in- 
troduced his  brother-in-law  to  such  of  the  guests  as  were 
strangers  to  him,  Vaudemont  among  the  rest.  Mr.  Beaiifort 
had  never  seen  Philip  Morton  more  than  three  times ;  once  at 
Fernside,  and  the  other  times  by  an  imperfect  light,  and 
when  his  features  were  convulsed  by  passion,  and  his  form 
disfigured  by  his  dress.  Certainly,  therefore,  had  Robert 
Beaufort  even  possessed  that  facult}^  of  memory  which  is  sup- 
posed to  belong  peculiarly  to  kings  and  princes,  and  which 
recalls  every  face  once  seen,  it  might  have  tasked  the  gift  to 
the  utmost  to  have  detected,  in  the  bronzed  and  decorated 
foreigner  to  whom  he  was  now  presented,  the  features  of  the 
wild  and  long-lost  boy.  But  still  some  dim  and  uneasy  pre- 
sentiment, or  some  struggling  and  painful  effort  of  recollec- 
tion, was  in  his  mind,  as  he  spoke  to  Vaudemont,  and  listened 
to  the  cold  calm  tone  of  his  reply. 

"Who  do  you  say  that  Frenchman  is?"  he  whispered  to  his 
brother-in-law,  as  Vaudemont  turned  away. 

"Oh,  a  cleverish  sort  of  adventurer, —  a  gentleman;  he 
plays.  He  has  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world;  he  rather 
amuses  me, —  different  from  other  people.  I  think  of  asking 
him  to  join  our  circle  at  Beaufort  Court." 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  419 

Mr.  Beaufort  coughed  huskily;  but  not  seeing  any  reasona- 
ble objection  to  the  proposal,  and  afraid  of  rousing  the  sleep- 
ing hyena  of  Lord  Lilburne's  sarcasm,  he  merely  said, — 

"  Any  one  you  like  to  invite ; "  and  looking  round  for  some 
one  on  whom  to  vent  his  displeasure,  perceived  Camilla  still 
listening  to  Liancourt.  He  stalked  up  to  her,  and  as 
Liancourt,  seeing  her  rise,  rose  also  and  moved  away,  he  said 
peevishly,  "  You  will  never  learn  to  conduct  yourself  properly ; 
you  are  to  be  left  here  to  nurse  and  comfort  your  uncle,  and 
not  to  listen  to  the  gibberish  of  every  French  adventurer. 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  I  have  a  son!  —  girls  are  a  great 
plague ! " 

"So  they  are,  Mr.  Beaufort,"  sighed  his  wife,  who  had 
just  joined  him,  and  who  was  jealous  of  the  preference 
Lilburne  had  given  to  her  daughter. 

"And  so  selfish!  "  added  Mrs.  Beaufort.  "They  only  care 
for  their  own  amusements,  and  never  mind  how  uncomforta- 
ble their  parents  are  for  want  of  them." 

"Oh,  dear  Mamma,  don't  say  so;  let  me  go  home  with  you, 

—  I'll  speak  to  my  uncle!  " 

"  Nonsense,  child !  Come  along,  Mr.  Beaufort ;  "  and  the 
affectionate  parents  went  out  arm  in  arm.  They  did  not  per- 
ceive that  Vaudemont  had  been  standing  close  behind  them ; 
but  Camilla,  now  looking  up  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  again 
caught  his  gaze.     He  had  heard  all. 

"And  they  ill-treat  her,"  he  muttered, —  ^^that  divides  her 
from  them!     She  will  be  left  here;  I  shall  see  her  again." 

As  he  turned  to  depart,  Lilburne  beckoned  to  him. 

"You  do  not  mean  to  desert  our  table?" 

"No;  but  I  am  not  very  well  to-night, — to-morrow,  if  you 
will  allow  me." 

"  Ay,  to-morrow ;  and  if  you  can  spare  an  hour  in  the  morn- 
ing it  will  be  a  charity.  You  see, "  he  added  in  a  whisper, 
"  I  have  a  nurse,  though  I  have  no  children.  D'  ye  think 
that's  love?    Bah!  sir,  a  legacy!     Goodnight." 

"  No !  no !  no ! "  said  Vaudemont  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
through  the  moonlit  streets.     "No!  though  my  heart  burns, 

—  poor  murdered  felon !  —  to  avenge  thy  wrongs  and  thy 


420  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

crimes,  revenge  cannot  come  from  me,  —  he  is  Fanny's  grand- 
father and  —  Camilla'' 6  uncle  !  " 

And  Camilla,  when  that  uncle  had  dismissed  her  for  the 
night,  sat  down  thoughtfully  in  her  own  room.  The  dark 
eyes  of  Vaudemont  seemed  still  to  shine  on  her;  his  voice  yet 
rung  in  her  ear;  the  wild  tales  of  daring  and  danger  with 
which  Liancourt  had  associated  his  name  yet  haunted  her  be- 
wildered fancy.  She  started,  frightened  at  her  own  thoughts. 
She  took  from  her  bosom  some  lines  that  Sidney  had  addressed 
to  her,  and  as  she  read  and  re-read,  her  spirit  became  calmed 
to  its  wonted  and  faithful  melancholy.  Vaudemont  was  for- 
gotten, and  the  name  of  Sidney  yet  murmured  on  her  lips, 
when  sleep  came  to  renew  the  image  of  the  absent  one,  and 
paint  in  dreams  the  fairy-land  of  a  happy  Future! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Ring  on,  ye  bells  —  most  pleasant  in  your  chime  ! 

Wilson  :  Isle  of  Palms. 

0  fairy  child  !     "What  can  I  wish  for  thee  ?  —  Ihid. 

Vaudemont  remained  six  days  in  London  without  going 

to  H ,  and  on  each  of  those  days  he  paid  a  visit  to  Lord 

Lilburne.  On  the  seventh  day,  the  invalid  being  much  bet- 
ter, though  still  unable  to  leave  his  room,  Camilla  returned 
to  Berkeley  Square;  on  the  same  day,  Vaudemont  went  once 
more  to  see  Simon  and  poor  Fanny. 

As  he  approached  the  door,  he  heard  from  the  window,  par- 
tially opened,  for  the  day  was  clear  and  fine,  Fanny's  sweet 
voice.  She  was  chanting  one  of  the  simple  songs  she  had 
promised  to  learn  by  heart;  and  Vaudemont,  though  but  a  poor 
judge  of  the  art,  was  struck  and  affected  by  the  music  of  the 
voice  and  the  earnest  depth  of  the  feeling.  He  paused  oppo- 
site the  window  and  called  her  by  her  name.  Fanny  looked 
forth  joyously,  and  ran,  as  usual,  to  open  the  door  to  him. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  421 

"Oh,  you  have  been  so  long  away;  but  I  already  know 
many  of  the  songs :  they  say  so  much  that  I  always  wanted 
to  say!" 

Vaudemont  smiled,  but  languidly. 

"How  strange  it  is,"  said  Fanny,  musingly,  "that  there 
should  be  so  much  in  a  piece  of  paper!  for,  after  all,"  point- 
ing to  the  open  page  of  her  book,  "this  is  but  a  piece  of 
paper, — only  there  is  life  in  it!" 

"Ay,"  said  Vaudemont,  gloomily,  and  far  from  seizing  the 
subtle  delicacy  of  Fanny's  thought,— Aer  mind  dwelling  upon 
Poetry  and  his  upon  Law, —  "ay,  and  do  you  know  that  upon 
a  mere  scrap  of  paper,  if  I  could  but  find  it,  may  depend  my 
whole  fortune,  my  whole  happiness,  all  that  I  care  for  in 
life?" 

"Upon  a  scrap  of  paper?  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  find  it! 
Ah,  you  look  as  if  you  thought  I  should  never  be  wise  enough 
for  that!" 

Vaudemont,  not  listening  to  her,  uttered  a  deep  sigh. 
Fanny  approached  him  timidly. 

"Do  not  sigh,  brother, —  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  sigh. 
You  are  changed.  Have  you,  too,  not  been  happy?" 
"Happy,  Fanny!  yes,  lately  very  happy, — too  happy!  " 
"Happy,  have  you?  and  / — "  The  girl  stopped  short; 
her  tone  had  been  that  of  sadness  and  reproach,  and  she 
stopped, — why  she  knew  not,  but  she  felt  her  heart  sink 
within  her.  Fanny  suffered  him  to  pass  her,  and  he  went 
straight  to  his  own  room.  Her  eyes  followed  him  wistfully; 
it  was  not  his  habit  to  leave  her  thus  abruptly.  The  fam- 
ily meal  of  the  day  was  over,  and  it  was  an  hour  before 
Vaudemont  descended  to  the  parlour.  Fanny  had  put  aside 
the  songs ;  she  had  no  heart  to  recommence  those  gentle  stud- 
ies that  had  been  so  sweet, —  they  had  drawn  no  pleasure,  no 
praise  from  him.  She  was  seated  idly  and  listlessly  beside 
the  silent  old  man,  who  every  day  grew  more  and  more  silent 
still.  She  turned  her  head  as  Vaudemont  entered,  and  her 
pretty  lip  pouted  as  that  of  a  neglected  child ;  but  he  did  not 
heed  it,  and  the  pout  vanished,  and  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 
Vaudemont  was  changed.     His  countenance  was  thoughtful 


422  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

and  overcast,  his  manner  abstracted.  He  addressed  a  few 
words  to  Simon,  and  then,  seating  himself  by  the  window, 
leaned  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  and  was  soon  lost  in  revery. 
Fanny,  finding  that  he  did  not  speak,  and  after  stealing  many 
a  long  and  earnest  glance  at  his  motionless  attitude  and 
gloomy  brow,  rose  gently,  and  gliding  to  him  with  her  light 
step,  said  in  a  trembling  voice, — 

"Are  you  in  pain,  brother?" 

"  No,  pretty  one !  " 

"Then  why  won't  you  speak  to  Fanny?  Will  you  not  walk 
with  her?     Perhaps  my  grandfather  will  come  too." 

"Not  this  evening.     I  shall  go  out;  but  it  will  be  alone." 

"Where?  Has  not  Fanny  been  good?  I  have  not  been  out 
since  you  left  us.  And  the  grave,  brother!  I  sent  Sarah 
with  the  flowers,  but  — " 

Vaudemont  rose  abruptly.  The  mention  of  the  grave 
brought  back  his  thoughts  from  the  dreaming  channel  into 
which  they  had  flowed.  Fanny,  whose  very  childishness  had 
once  so  soothed  him,  now  disturbed ;  he  felt  the  want  of  that 
complete  solitude  which  makes  the  atmosphere  of  growing 
passion;  he  muttered  some  scarcely  audible  excuse,  and 
quitted  the  house.  Fanny  saw  him  no  more  that  evening. 
He  did  not  return  till  midnight.  But  Fanny  did  not  sleep 
till  she  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs,  and  his  chamber-door 
close;  and  when  she  did  sleep,  her  dreams  were  disturbed 
and  painful.  The  next  morning,  when  they  met  at  breakfast 
(for  Vaudemont  did  not  return  to  London),  her  eyes  were  red 
and  heavy,  and  her  cheek  pale;  and,  still  buried  in  medita- 
tion, Vaudemont's  eye,  usually  so  kind  and  watchful,  did  not 
detect  those  signs  of  a  grief  that  Fanny  could  not  have  ex- 
plained. After  breakfast,  however,  he  asked  her  to  walk  out; 
and  her  face  brightened  as  she  hastened  to  put  on  her  bonnet, 
and  take  her  little  basket  full  of  fresh  flowers  which  she  had 
already  sent  Sarah  forth  to  purchase. 

"Fanny,"  said  Vaudemont,  as  leaving  the  house,  he  saw 
the  basket  on  her  arm,  "  to-day  you  may  place  some  of  tliose 
flowers  on  another  tombstone  I  Poor  child,  what  natural 
goodness  there  is  in  that  heart !  what  pity  that  —  " 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  423 

He  paused.     Fanny  looked  delightedly  in  his  face. 

"You  were  praising  me, —  ijou!  And  what  is  a  pity, 
brother?  " 

While  she  spoke,  the  sound  of  the  joy-bells  was  heard  near 
at  hand. 

"Hark!"  said  Vaudeniont,  forgetting  her  question,  and  al- 
most gayly, —  "hark!  I  accept  the  omen.  It  is  a  marriage 
peal ! " 

He  quickened  his  steps,  and  they  reached  the  churchyard. 

There  was  a  crowd  already  assembled,  and  Vaudemont  and 
Fanny  paused,  and  leaning  over  the  little  gate,  looked  on. 

"  Why  are  these  people  here,  and  why  does  the  bell  ring  so 
merrily?" 

"There  is  to  be  a  wedding,  Fanny." 

"I  have  heard  of  a  wedding  very  often,"  said  Fanny,  with 
a  pretty  look  of  puzzlement  and  doubt,  "but  I  don't  knoAv 
exactly  what  it  means.  Will  you  tell  me?  —  and  the  bells, 
too!" 

"Yes,  Fanny,  those  bells  toll  but  three  times  for  man! 
The  first  time,  when  he  comes  into  the  world;  the  last 
time,  when  he  leaves  it ;  the  time  between,  when  he  takes  to 
his  side  a  partner  in  all  the  sorrows,  in  all  the  joys  that  yet 
remain  to  him ;  and  who,  even  when  the  last  bell  announces 
his  death  to  this  earth,  may  yet,  for  ever  and  ever,  be  his 
partner  in  that  world  to  come,  —  that  heaven,  where  they  who 
are  as  innocent  as  you,  Fanny,  may  hope  to  live  and  to  love 
each  other  in  a  land  in  which  there  are  no  graves !  " 

"And  ^A^'5  bell?" 

"Tolls  for  that  partnership, —  for  the  wedding!  " 

"I  think  I  understand  you.  And  they  who  are  to  be  wed 
are  happy?" 

"  Happy,  Fanny,  if  they  love,  and  their  love  continue.  Oh, 
conceive  the  happiness  to  know  some  one  person  dearer  to 
you  than  your  own  self,  some  one  breast  into  which  you  can 
pour  every  thought,  every  grief,  every  joy !  one  person,  who, 
if  all  the  rest  of  the  world  were  to  calumniate  or  forsake  you, 
would  never  wrong  you  by  a  harsh  thought  or  an  unjust  word ; 
who  would  cling  to  you  the  closer  in  sickness,  in  poverty,  in 


424  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

care;  who  would  sacrifice  all  things  to  you,  and  for  whom  you 
would  sacrifice  all ;  from  whom,  excejjt  by  death,  night  or  day, 
you  must  be  never  divided;  whose  smile  is  ever  at  your 
hearth ;  who  has  no  tears  while  you  are  well  and  happy,  and 
your  love  the  same.  Fanny,  such  is  marriage,  if  they  who 
marry  have  hearts  and  souls  to  feel  that  there  is  no  bond  on 
earth  so  tender  and  so  sublime.  There  is  an  opposite  picture, 
—  I  will  not  draw  that!  And  as  it  is,  Fanny,  you  cannot 
understand  me ! " 

He  turned  away;  and  Fanny's  tears  were  falling  like  rain 
upon  the  grass  below,  —  he  did  not  see  them!  He  entered 
the  churchyard,  for  the  bell  now  ceased;  the  ceremony  was 
to  begin.  He  followed  the  bridal  party  into  the  church, 
and  Fanny,  lowering  her  veil,  crept  after  him,  awed  and 
trembling. 

They  stood,  unobserved,  at  a  little  distance,  and  heard  the 
service. 

The  betrothed  were  of  the  middle  class  of  life,  young,  both 
comely;  and  their  behaviour  was  such  as  suited  the  reverence 
and  sanctity  of  the  rite.  Vaudemont  stood  looking  on  in- 
tently, with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast.  Fanny  leaned 
behind  him,  and  apart  from  all,  against  one  of  the  pews. 
And  still  in  her  hand,  while  the  priest  was  solemnizing  Mar- 
riage, she  held  the  flowers  intended  for  the  Grave.  Even  to 
that  Morning  —  hushed,  calm,  earnest,  with  her  mysterious 
and  unconjectured  heart  —  her  shape  brought  a  thought  of 
Night! 

When  the  ceremony  was  over,  when  the  bride  fell  on  her 
mother's  breast,  and  wept;  and  then,  when  turning  thence, 
her  eyes  met  the  bridegroom's  and  the  tears  were  all  smiled 
away;  when  in  that  one  rapid  interchange  of  looks  spoke  all 
that  holy  love  can  speak  to  love,  and  with  timid  frankness 
she  placed  her  hand  in  his  to  whom  she  had  just  vowed  her 
life, — a  tlirill  went  through  the  hearts  of  those  present. 
Vaudemont  sighed  heavily.  He  heard  his  sigh  echoed,  but 
by  one  that  had  in  its  sound  no  breath  of  pain.  He  turned ; 
Fanny  had  raised  her  veil ;  her  eyes  met  his,  moistened,  but 
bright,  soft,  and  her  cheeks  were  rosy-red.     Vaudemont  re- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  425 

coiled  before  that  gaze,  and  turned  from  the  church.  The  per- 
sons interested  retired  to  the  vestry  to  sign  their  names  in  the 
registry;  the  crowd  dispersed,  and  Vaudemont  and  Fanny 
stood  alone  in  the  burial-ground. 

"Look,  Fanny,"  said  the  former,  pointing  to  a  tomb  that 
stood  far  from  his  mother's  (for  those  ashes  were  too  hal- 
lowed for  such  a  neighbourhood).  "Look  yonder;  it  is  a  new 
tomb,  Fanny,  let  us  approach  it.  Can  you  read  what  is  there 
inscribed?  " 

The  inscription  was  simply  this :  — 

To  W—  G— 

MAN    SEES    THE    DEED, 

GOD    THE    CIRCUMSTANCE. 

JUDGE    NOT,    THAT    YE    BE    NOT    JUDGED. 

"  Fanny,  this  tomb  fulfils  your  pious  wish :  it  is  to  the  mem- 
ory of  him  whom  you  called  your  father.  Whatever  was  his 
life  here,  whatever  sentence  it  hath  received.  Heaven  at  least 
will  not  condemn  your  piety,  if  you  honour  one  who  was  good 
to  you,  and  place  flowers,  however  idle,  even  over  that  grave." 

"It  is  his  —  my  father's  —  and  you  have  thought  of  this 
for  me !  "  said  Fanny,  taking  his  hand,  and  sobbing.  "  And  I 
have  been  thinking  that  you  were  not  so  kind  to  me  as  you 
were ! " 

"Have  I  not  been  so  kind  to  you?  Nay,  forgive  me,  I  am 
not  happy." 

"]s[ot?  —  you  said  yesterday  you  had  been  too  happy." 

"To  remember  happiness  is  not  to  be  happy,  Fanny." 

"  That 's  true  —  and  —  " 

Fanny  stopped;  and,  as  she  bent  over  the  tomb,  musing, 
Vaudemont,  willing  to  leave  her  undisturbed,  and  feeling  bit- 
terly how  little  his  conscience  could  vindicate,  though  it  might 
find  palliation  for,  the  dark  man  who  slept  not  there,  retired 
a  few  paces. 

At  this  time  the  new-married  pair,  with  their  witnesses, 
the  clergyman,  etc.,  came  from  the  vestry,  and  crossed  the 
path.  Fanny,  as  she  turned  from  the  tomb,  saw  them,  and 
stood  still,  looking  earnestly  at  the  bride. 


426  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"  "What  a  lovely  face !  "  said  the  mother.  "  Is  it  —  yes,  it 
is  —  the  poor  idiot  girl." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  bridegroom,  tenderly,  "  and  she,  Mary, 
beautiful  as  she  is,  she  can  never  make  another  as  happy  as 
you  have  made  me." 

Vaudemont  heard,  and  his  heart  felt  sad.  "Poor  Fanny! 
And  yet,  but  for  that  affliction,  /  might  have  loved  her,  ere 
I  met  the  fatal  face  of  the  daughter  of  my  foe !  "  And  with  a 
deep  compassion,  an  inexpressible  and  holy  fondness,  he 
moved  to  Fanny. 

"Come,  my  child;  now  let  us  go  home." 

"Stay,"  said  Fanny, —  "you  forget."  And  she  went  to 
strew  the  flowers  still  left  over  Catherine's  grave. 

"Will  my  mother,"  thought  Vaudemont,  "forgive  me,  if  I 
have  other  thoughts  than  hate  and  vengeance  for  that  house 
which  biiilds  its  greatness  over  her  slandered  name?"  He 
groaned,  —  and  that  grave  had  lost  its  melancholy  charm. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Of  all  men,  I  say, 

That  dare,  for  't  is  a  desperate  adventure, 
Wear  on  their  free  necks  the  yoke  of  women, 
Give  me  a  soldier.  —  Knight  of  Malta. 

So  lightly  doth  this  little  boat 

Upon  the  scarce-toiiched  billows  float ; 

So  careless  doth  slie  seem  to  be, 

Thus  left  by  herself  on  the  homeless  sea. 

To  lie  there  with  her  cheerful  sail, 

Till  Heaven  shall  send  some  gracious  gale. 

Wilson:  Isle  of  Palms. 

Vaudemont  returned  that  evening  to  London,  and  found  at 
his  lodgings  a  note  from  Lord  Lilburne,  stating  that  as  his 
gout  was  now  somewhat  mitigated,  his  physician  had  recom- 
mended him  to  try  change  of  air;  that  Beaufort  Court  was  in 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  427 

one  of  the  westem  counties,  in  a  genial  climate ;  that  he  -was 
therefore  going  thither  the  next  day  for  a  short  time;  that  he 
had  asked  some  of  M.  de  Vaudemont's  countrymen,  and  a  few- 
other  friends,  to  enliven  the  circle  of  a  dull  country-house; 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beaufort  would  be  delighted  to  see  M.  de 
Yaudemout  also,  — and  that  his  compliance  with  their  invita- 
tion would  be  a  charity  to  M.  de  Vaudemont's  faithful  and 
obliged  Lilburne. 

The  first  sensation  of  Vaudemont  on  reading  this  eifusion 
was  delight.  "I  shall  see  her!''  he  cried;  "I  shall  be  under 
the  same  roof!  "  But  the  glow  faded  at  once  from  his  cheek. 
The  roof!  —  what  roof?  Be  the  guest  where  he  held  himself 
the  lord!  be  the  guest  of  Robert  Beaufort!  Was  that  all? 
Did  he  not  meditate  the  deadliest  war  which  civilized  life 
admits  of  —  the  War  of  Law,  —  war  for  name,  property, 
that  very  hearth  with  all  its  household  gods  against  this 
man:  could  he  receive  his  hospitality?  "And  what  then!" 
he  exclaimed,  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  the  room,  — "  because 
her  father  wronged  me,  and  because  I  would  claim  mine  own, 
must  I  therefore  exclude  from  my  thoughts,  from  my  sight, 
an  image  so  fair  and  gentle,  —  the  one  who  knelt  by  my  side, 
an  infant,  to  that  hard  man?  Is  hate  so  noble  a  passion  that 
it  is  not  to  admit  one  glimpse  of  Love?  Love!  what  word  is 
that?  Let  me  beware  in  time ! "  He  paused  in  fierce  self- 
contest,  and  throwing  open  the  window,  gasped  for  air.  The 
street  in  which  he  lodged  was  situated  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  St.  James's ;  and  at  that  very  moment,  as  if  to  defeat  all 
opposition  and  to  close  the  struggle,  Mrs.  Beaufort's  barouche 
drove  by,  Camilla  at  her  side.  Mrs.  Beaufort,  glancing  up, 
languidly  bowed;  and  Camilla  herself  perceived  him,  and  he 
saw  her  change  colour  as  she  inclined  her  head.  He  gazed 
after  them  almost  breathless  till  the  carriage  disappeared; 
and  then  reclosing  the  window,  he  sat  down  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  and  again  to  reason  with  himself.  But  still,  as  he 
reasoned,  he  saw  ever  before  him  that  blush  and  tliat  smile. 
At  last  he  sprang  up,  and  a  noble  and  bright  expression  ele- 
vated the  character  of  his  face.  "  Yes,  if  I  enter  that  house, 
if  I  eat  that  man's  bread,  and  drink  of  his  cup,  T  must  forego. 


428  XIGIIT   AND  MORXIXG. 

not  justice  —  not  wliat  is  due  to  my  mother's  name  —  but 
whatever  belongs  to  hate  and  vengeance.  If  I  enter  that 
house,  and  if  Providence  permit  me  the  means  whereby  to 
regain  my  rights,  why  she  —  the  innocent  one  —  she  may  be 
the  means  of  saving  her  father  from  ruin,  and  stand  like  an 
angel  by  that  boundary  where  justice  runs  into  revenge! 
Besides,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  discover  Sidney?  Here  is  the 
only  clew  I  shall  obtain."  With  these  thoughts  he  hesitated 
no  more;  he  decided  he  would  not  reject  this  hospitality, 
since  it  might  be  in  his  power  to  pay  it  back  ten  thousand- 
fold. "And  who  knows,"  he  murmured  again,  "if  Heaven, 
in  throwing  this  sweet  being  in  my  way,  might  not  have  de- 
signed to  subdue  and  chasten  in  me  the  angry  passions  I  have 
so  long  fed  on?  I  have  seen  her, — can  I  noiv  hate  her 
father?" 

He  sent  off  his  note  accepting  the  invitation.  When  he 
had  done  so,  was  he  satisfied?  He  had  taken  as  noble  and  as 
large  a  view  of  the  duties  thereby  imposed  on  him  as  he  well 
could  take;  but  something  whispered  at  his  heart,  "There  is 
weakness  in  thy  generosity,  —  darest  thou  love  the  daughter 
of  Robert  Beaufort?  "  And  his  heart  had  no  answer  to  this 
voice. 

The  rapidity  with  which  love  is  ripened  depends  less  upon 
the  actual  number  of  years  that  have  passed  over  the  soil  in 
which  the  seed  is  cast  than  upon  the  freshness  of  the  soil 
itself.  A  young  man  who  lives  the  ordinary  life  of  the  world, 
and  who  fritters  away,  rather  than  exhausts,  his  feelings, 
upon  a  variety  of  quick  succeeding  subjects  —  the  Cynthias  of 
the  minute  —  is  not  apt  to  form  a  real  passion  at  the  first 
sight.     Youth  is  inflammable  only  when  the  heart  is  young! 

There  are  certain  times  of  life  when,  in  either  sex,  the 
affections  are  prepared,  as  it  were,  to  be  impressed  with  the 
first  fair  face  that  attracts  the  fancy  and  delights  the  eye. 
Such  times  are  when  the  heart  has  been  long  solitary,  and 
when  some  interval  of  idleness  and  rest  succeeds  to  periods  of 
harsher  and  more  turbulent  excitement.  It  was  precisely 
such  a  period  in  the  life  of  Vaudemont.  Although  his  ambi- 
tion had  been  for  many  years  his  dream  and  his  sword  his 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  429 

mistress,  yet  naturally  affectionate  and  susceptible  of  strong 
emotion,  he  had  often  repined  at  his  lonely  lot.  By  degrees 
the  boy's  fantasy  and  reverence  which  had  wound  themselves 
round  the  image  of  Eugenie  subsided  into  that  gentle  and  ten- 
der melancholy  which,  perhaps  by  weakening  the  strength  of 
the  sterner  thoughts,  leaves  us  inclined  rather  to  receive  than 
to  resist  a  new  attachment;  and  on  the  verge  of  the  sweet 
Memory  trembles  the  sweet  Hope.  The  suspension  of  his 
profession,  his  schemes,  his  struggles,  his  career,  left  his  pas- 
sions unemployed.  Vaudemont  was  thus  unconsciously  pre- 
pared to  love.  As  we  have  seen,  his  first  and  earliest  feelings 
directed  themselves  to  Fanny ;  but  he  had  so  immediately  de- 
tected the  danger,  and  so  immediately  recoiled  from  nursing 
those  thoughts  and  fancies,  without  which  love  dies  for  want 
of  food,  for  a  person  to  whom  he  ascribed  the  affliction  of  an 
imbecility  which  would  give  to  such  a  sentiment  all  the  attri- 
butes either  of  the  weakest  rashness  or  of  dishonour  ap- 
proaching to  sacrilege,  that  the  wings  of  the  deity  were  scared 
away  the  instant  their  very  shadow  fell  upon  his  mind.  And 
thus  when  Camilla  rose  upon  him  his  heart  was  free  to  receive 
her  image.  Her  graces,  her  accomplishments,  a  certain  name- 
less charm  that  invested  her,  pleased  him  even  more  than  her 
beauty;  the  recollections  connected  with  that  first  time  in 
which  he  had  ever  beheld  her  were  also  grateful  and  endear- 
ing; the  harshness  with  which  her  parents  spoke  to  her  moved 
his  compassion,  and  addressed  itself  to  a  temper  peculiarly 
alive  to  the  generosity  that  leans  towards  the  weak  and  the 
wronged;  the  engaging  mixture  of  mildness  and  gayety  with 
which  she  tended  her  peevish  and  sneering  uncle  convinced 
him  of  her  better  and  more  enduring  qualities  of  disposition 
and  womanly  heart.  And  even  —  so  strange  and  contradic- 
tory are  our  feelings  —  the  very  remembrance  that  she  was 
connected  with  a  family  so  hateful  to  him  made  her  own  image 
the  more  bright  from  the  darkness  that  surrounded  it.  For 
was  it  not  with  the  daughter  of  his  foe  that  the  lover  of 
Verona  fell  in  love  at  first  sight?  And  is  not  that  a  common 
type  of  us  all, — as  if  Passion  delighted  in  contradictions? 
As  the  Diver,   in  Schiller's  exquisite  ballad,  fastened  upon 


430  NIGHT   AXD  MORNING. 

the  rock  of  coral  in  the  midst  of  the  gloomy  sea,  so  we  cling 
the  more  gratefully  to  whatever  of  fair  thought  and  gentle 
shelter  smiles  out  to  us  in  the  dej^ths  of  Hate  and  Strife. 

But,  perhai^s,  Vaudemont  would  not  so  suddenly  and  so 
utterly  have  rendered  himself  to  a  passion  that  began  already 
completely  to  master  his  strong  spirit,  if  he  had  not,  from 
Camilla's  embarrassment,  her  timidity,  her  blushes,  intoxi- 
cated himself  with  the  belief  that  his  feelings  were  not 
unshared.  And  who  knows  not  that  such  a  belief,  once  cher- 
ished, ripens  our  own  love  to  a  development  in  which  hours 
are  as  years? 

It  was,  then,  with  such  emotions  as  made  him  almost  insen- 
sible to  every  thought  but  the  luxury  of  breatliing  the  same 
air  as  his  cousin,  which  swept  from  his  mind  the  Past,  the 
Future,  leaving  nothing  but  a  joyous,  a  breathless  present  on 
the  Face  of  Time,  that  he  repaired  to  Beaufort  Court.     He 

did  not  return  to  H before  he  went;  but  he  wrote  to 

Fanny  a  short  and  hurried  line  to  explain  that  he  might  be 
absent  for  some  days  at  least,  and  promised  to  write  again  if 
he  shoTild  be  detained  longer  than  he  anticipated. 

In  the  meanwhile,  one  of  those  successive  revolutions  which 
had  marked  the  eras  in  Fanny's  moral  existence  took  its 
date  from  that  last  time  they  had  walked  and  conversed 
together. 

The  very  evening  of  that  day,  some  hours  after  Philip  was 
gone  and  after  Simon  had  retired  to  rest,  Fanny  was  sitting 
before  the  dying  fire  in  the  little  parlour  in  an  attitude  of 
deep  and  pensive  revery.  The  old  woman-servant,  Sarah, 
who,  very  different  from  Mrs.  Boxer,  loved  Fanny  with  her 
whole  heart,  came  into  the  room  as  was  her  wont  before 
going  to  bed,  to  see  that  the  fire  was  duly  out,  and  all  safe : 
and  as  she  approached  the  hearth,  she  started  to  see  Fanny 
still  up. 

"Dear  heart  alive!  "  she  said;  "why,  Miss  Fanny,  you  will 
catch  your  death  of  cold,  — what  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"Sit  down,  Sarah;  I  want  to  speak  to  you."  Xow,  though 
Fanny  was  exceedingly  kind  and  attached  to  Sarah,  she  was 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  431 

seldom  communciative  to  her,  or  indeed  to  any  one.  It  was 
usually  in  its  own  silence  and  darkness  that  that  lovely  mind 
worked  out  its  own  doubts. 

"Do  you,  my  sweet  young  lady?  I  'm  sure  anything  I  can 
do  — "  and  Sarah  seated  herself  in  her  master's  great  chair, 
and  drew  it  close  to  Fanny.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room 
but  the  expiring  fire,  and  it  threw  upward  a  pale  glimmer  on 
the  two  faces  bending  over  it,  —  the  one  so  strangely  beauti- 
ful, so  smooth,  so  blooming,  so  exquisite  in  its  youth  and 
innocence;  the  other  withered,  wrinkled,  meagre,  and  astute. 
It  was  like  the  Fairy  and  the  Witch  together. 

"AVell,  Miss,"  said  the  crone,  observing  that,  after  a  con- 
siderable pause,  Fanny  was  still  silent,  —  "well  —  " 

"  Sarah,  I  have  seen  a  wedding !  " 

"Have  you?"  and  the  old  woman  laughed.  "Oh,  I  heard 
it  was  to  be  to-day!  — young  Waldron's  wedding!  Yes,  they 
have  been  long  sweethearts." 

"Were  you  ever  married,  Sarah?" 

"Lord  bless  you,  yes!  and  a  very  good  husband  I  had,  poor 
man!  But  he's  dead  these  manj'-  years;  and  if  you  had  not 
taken  me,  I  must  have  gone  to  the  workhus." 

"He  is  dead!  Wasn't  it  very  hard  to  live  nfter  that, 
Sarah?  " 

"The  Lord  strengthens  the  hearts  of  widders!"  observed 
Sarah,  sanctimoniously. 

"Did  you  marry  your  brother,  Sarah?"  said  Fanny,  playing 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  My  brother !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  aghast.  "  La ! 
Miss,  you  must  not  talk  in  that  way,  — it 's  quite  wicked  and 
heathenish!     One  must  not  marry  one's  brother!  " 

"  No ! "  said  Fanny,  tremblingly,  and  turning  verj'  pale, 
even  by  that  light.     "No!  —  are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"It  is  the  wickedest  thing  even  to  talk  about,  my  dear 
young  mistress;  but  you  're  like  a  babby  unborn!  " 

Fanny  was  silent  for  some  moments.  At  length  she  said, 
unconscious  that  she  was  speaking  aloud,  "But  he  is  not  my 
brother,  after  all !  " 

"  Oh,  Miss,  fie !     Are  you  letting  your  pretty  head  run  on 


432  ]S'IGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

the  handsome  gentleman?  Yoti,  too, — dear,  dear!  I  see 
we're  all  alike,  we  poor  femel  creturs!  You!  who'd  have 
thought  it?  Oh,  Miss  Fanny,  you'll  break  your  heart  if  you 
goes  for  to  fancy  any  such  thing." 

"Any  what  thing?" 

"Why,  that  that  gentleman  will  marry  you!  I'm  sure, 
thof  he's  so  simple  like,  he's  some  great  gentleman!  They 
say  his  hoss  is  worth  a  hundred  pounds!  Dear,  dear!  why 
didn't  I  ever  think  of  this  before?  He  must  be  a  very  wicked 
man.  I  see,  now,  why  he  comes  here.  I  '11  speak  to  him, 
tltat  I  will!  —  a  very  wicked  man!  " 

Sarah  was  startled  from  her  indignation  by  Fanny's  rising 
suddenly,  and  standing  before  her  in  the  flickering  twilight, 
almost  like  a  shape  transformed,  —  so  tall  did  she  seem,  so 
stately,  so  dignified. 

"Is  it  of  him  that  you  are  speaking?"  said  she,  in  a  voice 
of  calm  but  deep  resentment,  —  "  of  him !  If  so,  Sarah,  we 
two  can  live  no  more  in  the  same  house." 

And  these  words  were  said  with  a  propriety  and  collected- 
ness  that  even,  through  all  her  terror,  showed  at  once  to 
Sarah  how  much  they  now  wronged  Fanny  who  had  suffered 
their  lips  to  repeat  the  parrot-cry  of  the  "  idiot  girl !  " 

"Oh,  gracious  me!  miss  —  ma'am  —  I  am  so  sorry;  I'd 
rather  bite  out  my  tongue  than  say  a  word  to  offend  you.  It 
was  only  my  love  for  you,  dear  innocent  creature  that  you 
are !  "  and  the  honest  woman  sobbed  with  real  passion  as  she 
clasped  Fanny's  hand.  "  There  have  been  so  many  young  per- 
sons, good  and  harmless,  yes,  even  as  you  are,  ruined.  But 
you  don't  understand  me.  Miss  Fanny,  hear  me ;  I  must  try 
and  say  what  I  would  say.  That  man,  that  gentleman  —  so 
proud,  so  well-dressed,  so  grandlike  —  will  never  marry  yott, 
—  never,  never.  And  if  ever  he  says  he  does  love  you,  and  you 
say  you  loves  him,  and  you  two  don't  marry,  you  will  be 
ruined  and  wicked,  and  die  —  die  of  a  broken  heart!" 

The  earnestness  of  Sarah's  manner  subdued  and  almost 
awed  Fanny.  She  sank  down  again  in  her  chair,  and  suffered 
the  old  woman  to  caress  and  weep  over  her  hand  for  some 
moments,  in  a  silence  that  concealed  the  darkest  and  most 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  433 

agitated  feelings  Fanny's  life  had  hitlierto  known.  At  length 
she  said,  — 

"  Why  may  he  not  marry  me  if  he  loves  me?  He  is  not  my 
brother,  —  indeed  he  is  not!     I  '11  never  call  him  so  again." 

"  He  cannot  marry  you, "  said  Sarah,  resolved,  with  a  sort 
of  rude  nobleness,  to  persevere  in  what  she  felt  to  be  a  duty ; 
"I  don't  say  anything  about  money,  because  that  does  not 
always  signify.  But  he  cannot  marry  you,  because  —  because 
people  who  are  hedicated  one  way  never  marry  those  who  are 
hedicated  and  brought  up  in  another.  A  gentleman  of  that 
kind  requires  a  wife  to  know  —  oh  —  to  know  ever  so  much ; 
and  yow  —  " 

"Sarah,"  interrupted  Fanny,  rising  again,  but  this  time 
with  a  smile  on  her  face,  "don't  say  anything  more  about  it; 
I  forgive  you,  if  you  promise  never  to  speak  unkindly  of  him 
again,  —  never,  never,  never,  Sarah !  " 

"But  may  I  just  tell  him  that  —  that  —  " 

"That  what?" 

"  That  you  are  so  young  and  innocent,  and  has  no  pertector 
like ;  and  that  if  you  were  to  love  him  it  would  be  a  shame  in 
him  —  that  it  would?" 

And  then  (oh,  no,  Fanny,  there  was  nothing  clouded  noio  in 
in  your  reason!)  — and  then  the  woman's  alarm,  the  modesty, 
the  instinct,  the  terror  came  upon  her,  — 

"Never!  never!  I  will  not  love  him;  I  do  not  love  him, 
indeed,  Sarah.  If  you  speak  to  him,  I  will  never  look  you  in 
the  face  again.     It  is  all  past,  —  all,  dear  Sarah !  " 

She  kissed  the  old  woman;  and  Sarah,  fancying  that  her 
sagacity  and  counsel  had  prevailed,  promised  all  she  was 
asked;  so  they  went  upstairs  together  —  friends. 


434  is'IGUT  AND  MORNIXG. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


As  the  wind 
Sobs,  an  uncertain  sweetness  comes  from  out 
The  orange-trees. 

Rise  up,  Olympia.     She  sleeps  soundly.     Ho ! 

Stirring  at  la^t.  Barry  Cornwall. 

The  next  day,  Fanny  was  seen  by  Sarah  counting  the  little 
hoard  that  she  had  so  long  and  so  painfully  saved  for  her  bene- 
factor's tomb.  The  money  was  no  longer  wanted  for  that 
object.  Fanny  had  found  another ;  she  said  nothing  to  Sarah 
or  to  Simon;  but  there  was  a  strange  complacent  smile  upon 
her  lip  as  she  busied  herself  in  her  work  that  puzzled  the  old 
woman.  Late  at  noon  came  the  postman's  unwonted  knock  at 
the  door.  A  letter !  —  a  letter  for  ]\Iiss  Fanny.  A  letter !  — 
the  first  she  had  ever  received  in  her  life !  And  it  was  from 
him!  and  it  began  with  "Dear  Fanny"  !  Vaudemont  had 
called  her  "  Dear  Fanny "  a  hundred  times,  and  the  expres- 
sion had  become  a  matter  of  course;  but  "Dear  Fanny" 
seemed  so  very  different  when  it  was  written.  The  letter 
could  not  well  be  shorter,  nor,  all  things  considered,  colder. 
But  the  girl  found  no  fault  with  it.  It  began  with  "Dear 
Fanny,"  and  it  ended  with  "Yours  truly."  "Yours  truly  — 
mine  truly  —  and  how  kind  to  write  at  all!  "  Now  it  so  hap- 
pened that  Vaudemont,  having  never  merged  the  art  of  the 
penman  into  that  rapid  scrawl  into  which  people  who  are  com- 
pelled to  write  hurriedly  and  constantly  degenerate,  wrote  a 
remarkably  good  hand, — bold,  clear,  symmetrical, — almost 
too  good  a  hand  for  one  who  was  not  to  make  money  by  cal- 
ligraphy ;  and  after  Fanny  had  got  the  words  by  heart,  she  stole 
gently  to  a  cupboard  and  took  forth  some  specimens  of  her 
own  hand,  in  the  shape  of  house  and  work  memoranda,  and 
extracts  which,  the  better  to  help  her  memory,  she  had  made 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  435 

from  the  poem-book  Vaudemont  had  given  her.  She  gravely- 
laid  his  letter  by  the  side  of  these  specimens,  and  blushed  at 
the  contrast;  yet,  after  all,  her  own  writing,  though  trembling 
and  irresolute,  was  far  from  a  bad  or  vulgar  hand.  But  emu- 
lation was  now  fairly  roused  within  her.  Vaudemont,  preoc- 
cupied by  more  engrossing  thoughts,  and,  indeed,  forgetting  a 
danger  which  had  seemed  so  thoroughly  to  have  passed  away, 
did  not  in  his  letter  caution  Fanny  against  going  out  alone. 
She  remarked  this ;  and  having  completely  recovered  her  own 
alarm  at  the  attempt  that  had  been  made  on  her  liberty,  she 
thought  she  was  now  released  from  her  promise  to  guard 
against  a  past  and  imaginary  peril.  So  after  dinner  she 
slipped  out  alone  and  went  to  the  mistress  of  the  school  where 
she  had  received  her  elementary  education.  She  had  ever  since 
continued  her  acquaintance  with  that  lady,  who,  kind-hearted, 
and  touched  by  her  situation,  often  employed  her  industry, 
and  was  far  from,  blind  to  the  improvement  that  had  for  some 
time  been  silently  working  in  the  mind  of  her  old  pupil. 

Fanny  had  a  long  conversation  with  this  lady,  and  she 
brought  back  a  bundle  of  books.  The  light  might  have  been 
seen  that  night,  and  many  nights  after,  burning  long  and  late 
from  her  little  window.  And  having  recovered  her  old  free- 
dom of  habits,  which  Simon,  poor  man,  did  not  notice,  and 
which  Sarah,  thinking  that  anything  was  better  than  moping 
at  home,  did  not  remonstrate  against,  Fanny  went  out  regu- 
larly for  two  hours,  or  sometimes  for  even  a  longer  period, 
every  evening  after  old  Simon  had  composed  himself  to  the 
nap  that  filled  up  the  interval  between  dinner  and  tea. 

In  a  very  short  time  —  a  time  that  with  ordinary  stimulants 
would  have  seemed  marvellously  short  — Fanny's  handwriting 
was  not  the  same  thing;  her  manner  of  talking  became  differ- 
ent; she  no  longer  called  herself  "Fanny"  when  she  spoke; 
the  music  of  her  voice  was  more  quiet  and  settled;  her  sweet 
expression  of  face  was  more  thoughtful;  the  eyes  seemed  to 
have  deepened  in  their  very  colour;  she  was  no  longer  heard 
chanting  to  herself  as  she  tripped  along.  The  books  that  she 
nightly  fed  on  had  passed  into  her  mind ;  the  poetry  that  had 
ever  unconsciously  sported  round  her  young  years  began  now 


436  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

to  create  poetry  in  herself.  Nay,  it  might  almost  have  seemed 
as  if  that  restless  disorder  of  the  intellect,  which  the  dullards 
had  called  Idiocy,  had  been  the  wild  efforts,  not  of  Folly,  but 
of  Genius  seeking  to  find  its  path  and  outlet  from  the  cold 
and  dreary  solitude  to  which  the  circumstances  of  her  early 
life  had  compelled  it. 

Days,  even  weeks,  passed;  she  never  spoke  of  Vaudemont. 
And  once  when  Sarah,  astonished  and  bewildered  by  the 
change  in  her  young  mistress,  asked,  — 

"When  does  the  gentleman  come  back?" 

Fanny  answered,  with  a  mysterious  smile,  "Not  yet,  I 
hope,  —  not  quite  yet ! " 


CHAPTER    IX. 

Thierry.  I  do  begin 

To  feel  an  alteration  in  my  nature, 
And  in  his  full-sailed  confidence  a  shower 
Of  gentle  rain  that,  falling  on  the  fire, 
Hath  quenched  it. 

How  is  my  heart  divided 
Between  the  duty  of  a  son  and  love  ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :     Thierri/  and  Theodoret. 

Vaudemont  had  now  been  a  month  at  Beaufort  Court. 
The  scene  of  a  country  house,  with  the  sports  that  enliven  it 
and  the  accomplishments  it  calls  forth,  was  one  in  which  he 
was  well  fitted  to  shine.  He  had  been  an  excellent  shot  as  a 
boy,  and  though  long  unused  to  the  fowling-piece,  had  in 
India  acquired  a  deadly  precision  with  the  rifle;  so  that  a 
very  few  days  of  practice  in  the  stubbles  and  covers  of 
Beaufort  Court  made  his  skill  the  theme  of  the  guests  and  the 
admiration  of  the  keepers.  Hunting  began,  and  this  pursuit 
—  always  so  strong  a  passion  in  the  active  man,  and  which  to 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  437 

the  turbulence  and  agitation  of  his  half-tamed  breast,  now 
excited  by  a  kind  of  frenzy  of  hope  and  fear,  gave  a  vent  and 
release  —  was  a  sport  in  which  he  was  yet  more  fitted  to  ex- 
cel. His  horsemanship,  his  daring,  the  stone  walls  he  leaped 
and  the  floods  through  which  he  dashed,  furnished  his  com- 
panions with  wondering  tale  and  comment  on  their  return 
home.  Mr.  Marsden,  who,  with  some  other  of  Arthur's  early 
friends,  had  been  invited  to  Beaufort  Court,  in  order  to  wel- 
come its  expected  heir,  and  who  retained  all  the  prudence 
which  had  distinguished  him  of  yore  when,  having  ridden 
over  old  Simon,  he  dismounted  to  examine  the  knees  of  his 
horse ;  Mr.  Marsden,  a  skilful  huntsman,  who  rode  the  most 
experienced  horses  in  the  world,  and  who  generally  contrived 
to  be  in  at  the  death  without  having  leaped  over  anything 
higher  than  a  hurdle,  suffering  the  bolder  quadruped  (in  case 
what  is  called  the  "  knowledge  of  the  country  "  —  that  is,  the 
knowledge  of  gaps  and  gates  —  failed  him)  to  perform  the 
more  dangerous  feats  alone,  as  he  quietly  scrambled  over  or 
scrambled  through  upon  foot,  and  remounted  the  well-taught 
animal  when  it  halted  after  the  exploit,  safe  and  sound, — 
Mr.  Marsden  declared  that  he  never  saw  a  rider  with  so 
little  judgment  as  M.  de  Vaudemont,  and  that  the  devil  was 
certainly  in  him. 

This  sort  of  reputation,  commonplace  and  merely  physical 
as  it  was  in  itself,  had  a  certain  effect  upon  Camilla, — it 
might  be  an  effect  of  fear.  I  do  not  say,  for  I  do  not  know, 
what  her  feelings  towards  Vaudemont  exactly  were.  As  the 
calmest  natures  are  often  those  the  most  hurried  away  by 
their  contraries,  so,  perhaps,  he  awed  and  dazzled  rather  than 
pleased  her,  —  at  least,  he  certainly  forced  himself  on  her  in- 
terest. Still,  she  would  have  started  in  terror  if  any  one  liad 
said  to  her,  "  Do  you  love  your  betrothed  less  than  when  you 
met  by  that  happy  lake?  "  and  her  heart  would  have  indig- 
nantly rebuked  the  questioner.  The  letters  of  her  lover  were 
still  long  and  frequent;  hers  were  briefer  and  more  subdued. 
But  then  there  was  constraint  in  the  correspondence, —  it  was 
submitted  to  her  mother. 

Whatever  might  be  Vaudemont's  manner  to  Camilla  when- 


438  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

ever  occasion  threw  them  alone  together,  he  certainly  did  not 
make  his  attentions  glaring  enough  to  be  remarked.  His  eye 
watched  her  rather  than  his  lip  addressed,  he  kept  as  much 
aloof  as  possible  from  the  rest  of  her  family,  and  his  custom- 
ary bearing  was  silent  even  to  gloom.  But  there  were  mo- 
ments when  he  indulged  in  a  fitful  exuberance  of  spirits 
which  had  something  strained  and  unnatural.  He  had  out- 
lived Lord  Lilburne's  short  liking;  for  since  he  had  resolved 
no  longer  to  keep  watch  on  that  noble  gamester's  method  of 
play,  he  played  but  little  himself,  and  Lord  Lilburne  saw 
that  he  had  no  chance  of  ruining  him, —  there  was,  therefore, 
no  longer  any  reason  to  like  him.  But  this  was  not  all ;  when 
Vaudemont  had  been  at  the  house  somewhat  more  than  two 
weeks,  Lilburne,  petulant  and  impatient,  whether  at  his  re- 
fusals to  join  the  card-table,  or  at  the  moderation  with  which, 
when  he  did,  he  confined  his  ill-luck  to  petty  losses,  one  day 
limped  up  to  him,  as  he  stood  at  the  embrasure  of  the  window, 
gazing  on  the  wide  lands  beyond,  and  said, — 

"Vaudemont,  you  are  bolder  in  hunting,  they  tell  me,  than 
you  are  at  whist." 

"  Honours  don't  tell  against  one  —  over  a  hedge !  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Lilburne,  rather  haughtily. 

Vaudemont  was  at  that  moment  in  one  of  those  bitter  moods 
when  the  sense  of  his  situation,  the  sight  of  the  usurper  in 
his  home,  often  swept  away  the  gentler  thoughts  inspired  by 
his  fatal  passion;  and  the  tone  of  Lord  Lilburne,  and  his 
loathing  to  the  man,  were  too  much  for  his  temper, 

"Lord  Lilburne,"  he  said,  and  his  lip  curled,  "if  you  had 
been  born  poor,  you  would  have  made  a  great  fortune, —  you 
play  luckily." 

"How  am  I  to  take  this,  sir?" 

"As  you  please,"  answered  Vaudemont,  calmly,  but  with 
an  eye  of  fire;    and  he  turned  away. 

Lilburne  remained  on  the  spot  very  thoughtful.  "Hum! 
he  suspects  me.  I  cannot  quarrel  on  such  ground,— the  sus- 
picion itself  dishonours  me;  I  must  seek  another." 

The  next  day,  Lilburne,  who  was  familiar  with  Mr.  Marsden 
(though  the  latter  gentleman  never  played  at  the  same  table), 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  439 

asked  that  prudent  person  after  breakfast  if  he  happened  to 
have  his  pistols  with  him. 

"Yes;  I  always  take  them  into  the  country, — one  may  as 
well  practise  when  one  has  the  opportunity.  Besides,  sports- 
men are  often  quarrelsome ;  and  if  it  is  known  that  one  shoots 
well,  it  keeps  one  out  of  quarrels !  " 

"Very  true,"  said  Lilburne,  rather  admiringly.  "I  have 
made  the  same  remark  myself  when  I  was  younger.  1  have 
not  shot  with  a  pistol  for  some  years.  I  am  well  enough  now 
to  walk  out  with  the  help  of  a  stick.  Suppose  we  practise 
for  half  an  hour  or  so." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Mr.  Marsden. 

The  pistols  were  brought,  and  they  strolled  forth;  Lord 
Lilburne  found  his  hand  out. 

"As  I  never  hunt  now,"  said  the  peer,  and  he  gnashed  his 
teeth  and  glanced  at  his  maimed  limb, —  "for  though  lame- 
ness would  not  prevent  my  keeping  my  seat,  violent  exercise 
hurts  my  leg,  and  Brodie  says  any  fresh  accident  might  bring 
on  tic-douloureux, —  and  as  my  gout  does  not  permit  me  to 
join  the  shooting  parties  at  present,  it  would  be  a  kindness  in 
you  to  lend  me  your  pistols ;  it  would  while  away  an  hour  or 
so;  though,  thank  Heaven,  my  duelling  days  are  over!  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Marsden;  and  the  pistols  were 
consigned  to  Lord  Lilburne. 

Four  days  from  the  date,  as  Mr.  Marsden,  Vaudemont,  and 
some  other  gentlemen  were  making  for  the  covers,  they  came 
upon  Lord  Lilburne,  who,  in  a  part  of  the  park  not  within 
sight  or  sound  of  the  house,  was  amusing  himself  with  Mr. 
Marsden's  pistols,  which  Dykeman  was  at  hand  to  load  for 
him. 

He  turned  round,  not  at  all  disconcerted  by  the  interruption. 

"You  have  no  idea  how  I've  improved,  Marsden, — just 
see!  "  and  he  pointed  to  a  glove  nailed  to  a  tree.  "I  've  hit 
that  mark  twice  in  five  times;  and  every  time  I  have  gone 
straight  enough  along  the  line  to  have  killed  my  man." 

"Ay,  the  mark  itself  does  not  so  much  signify,"  said  Mr. 
Marsden, —  "at  least,  not  in  actual  duelling;  the  great  thing 
is  to  be  in  the  line." 


440  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Wliile  lie  spoke,  Lord  Lilburne's  ball  went  a  third  time 
through  the  glove.  His  cold  bright  eye  turned  on  Vaudemont 
as  he  said,  with  a  smile, — 

"  They  tell  me  you  shoot  well  with  a  fowling-piece,  my  dear 
Vaudemont, —  are  you  equally  adroit  with  a  pistol?" 

"You  may  see,  if  you  like.  But  you  take  aim,  Lord 
Lilburne,  —  that  would  be  of  no  use  in  English  duelling. 
Permit  me." 

He  walked  to  the  glove  and  tore  from  it  one  of  the  fingers, 
which  he  fastened  separately  to  the  tree ;  took  the  pistol  from 
Dykeman  as  he  walked  past  him,  gained  the  spot  whence  to 
fire,  turned  at  once  round,  without  apparent  aim,  and  the 
finger  fell  to  the  ground. 

Lilburne  stood  aghast. 

"That's  wonderful!"  said  Marsden,  "quite  wonderful! 
Where  the  devil  did  you  get  such  a  knack?  —  for  it  is  only 
knack  after  all." 

"I  lived  for  many  years  in  a  country  where  the  practice 
was  constant,  where  all  that  belongs  to  rifle-shooting  was  a 
necessary  accomplishment,  —  a  country  in  which  man  had  often 
to  contend  against  the  wild  beast.  In  civilized  states  man 
himself  supplies  the  place  of  the  wild  beast;  but  we  don't 
hunt  him!  Lord  Lilburne,"  and  this  was  added  with  a  smil- 
ing and  disdainful  whisper,  "you  must  practise  a  little 
more." 

But  disregardful  of  the  advice,  from  that  day  Lord  Lilburne's 
morning  occupation  was  gone;  he  thought  no  longer  of  a  diiel 
with  Vaudemont.  As  soon  as  the  sportsman  had  left  him  he 
bade  Dykeman  take  up  the  pistols,  and  walked  straight  home 
into  the  library,  where  Robert  Beaufort,  who  was  no  sports- 
man, generally  spent  his  mornings. 

He  flung  himself  into  an  armchair,  and  said,  as  he  stirred 
the  fire  with  unusual  vehemence, — 

"Beaufort,  I  'm  very  sorry  I  asked  you  to  invite  Vaudemont. 
He's  a  very  ill-bred,  disagreeable  fellow." 

Beaufort  threw  down  his  steward's  account-book,  on  which 
he  was  employed,  and  replied, — 

"Lilburne,  I  have  never  had  an  easy  moment   since   that 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  441 

man  has  been  in  the  house.  As  he  was  your  guest,  I  did  not 
like  to  speak  before;  but  don't  you  observe — you  must  ob- 
serve—  how  like  he  is  to  the  old  family  portraits?  The  more 
I  have  examined  him,  the  more  another  resemblance  grows 
upon  me.  In  a  word,"  said  Kobert,  pausing  and  breathing 
hard,  "if  his  name  were  not  Vaudemont;  if  his  history  were 
not,  apparently,  so  well  known, —  I  should  say,  I  should 
swear,  that  it  is  Philip  Morton  who  sleeps  under  this 
roof!" 

*'Ha!"  said  Lilburne,  with  an  earnestness  that  surprised 
Beaufort,  who  expected  to  have  heard  his  brother-in-law's 
sneering  sarcasm  at  his  fears.  "  The  likeness  you  speak  of  to 
the  old  portraits  did  strike  me;  it  struck  Marsden,  too,  the 
other  day,  as  we  were  passing  through  the  picture-gallery; 
and  Marsden  remarked  it  aloud  to  Vaudemont.  I  remember 
now  that  he  changed  countenance,  and  made»no  answer. 
Hush,  hush!  hold  your  tongue!  Let  me  think,  let  me  think. 
This  Philip  —  yes  —  yes  —  I  and  Arthur  saw  him  with  — 
with  Gawtrey,   in  Paris  — " 

"Gawtrey!  was  that  the  name  of  the  rogue  he  was  said 
to  —  " 

"Yes,  yes,  yes.  Ah,  now  I  guess  the  meaning  of  those 
looks,  those  words,"  muttered  Lilburne  between  his  teeth. 
"  This  pretension  to  the  name  of  Vaudemont  was  always  apoc- 
ryphal, the  story  always  but  half  believed, —  the  invention  of 
a  woman  in  love  with  him;  the  claim  on  your  property  is 
made  at  the  very  time  he  appears  in  England.  Ha!  have 
you  a  newspaper  there?  Give  it  me.  ^o,  'tis  not  in  this 
paper.     King  the  bell  for  the  file!" 

"What's  the  matter?  You  terrify  me!"  gasped  out  Mr. 
Beaufort,  as  he  rang  the  bell. 

"  Why,  have  you  not  seen  an  advertisement  repeated  sev- 
eral times  within  the  last  month?" 

"  I  never  read  advertisements,  —  except  in  the  county 
paper,  if  land  is  to  be  sold." 

"Xor  I,  often;  but  this  caught  my  eye.  John,"— here  the 
servant  entered,— "bring  the  file  of  the  newspapers.  The 
name  of  the  witness  whom  Mrs.   Morton  appealed   to  was 


442  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

Smith,  the  same  name  as  the  captain;  what  was  the  Christian 
name?" 

"I  don't  remember." 

"Here  are  the  papers, —  shut  the  door,  — and  here  is  the 
advertisement " :  — 

"  If  Mr.  William  Smith,  son  of  Jeremiah  Smith,  who  formerly  rented 
the  farm  of  Shipdale-Bury,  under  the  late  Right  lion.  Charles  Leopold 
Beaufort  [that's  your  uncle],  and  who  emigrated  in  the  year  18 —  to 
Australia,  will  apply  to  Mr.  Barlow,  Solicitor,  Essex  Street,  Strand,  he 
will  hear  of  something  to  his  advantage. " 

"Good  heavens!  why  did  not  you  mention  this  to  me 
before?  " 

"Because  I  did  not  think  it  of  any  importance.  In  the 
first  place,  there  might  be  some  legacy  left  to  the  man,  quite 
distinct  froipi  your  business, —  indeed,  that  was  the  probable 
supposition;  or  even  if  connected  with  the  claim,  such  an 
advertisement  might  be  but  a  despicable  attempt  to  frighten 
you.  Never  mind;  don't  look  so  pale!  After  all,  this  is  a 
proof  that  the  witness  is  not  found;  that  Captain  Smith  is 
neither  the  Smith,  nor  has  discovered  where  the  Smith  is !  " 

"True,"  observed  Mr.  Beaufort, —  "true,  very  true." 

"  Humph ! "  said  Lord  Lilburne,  who  was  still  rapidly 
glancing  over  the  file,  "here  is  another  advertisement  which 
I  never  saw  before.     This  looks  suspicious." 

"  If  the  person  who  called  on  the  —  of  September,  on  Mr.  Morton, 

linendraper,  etc.,  of  N will  renew  his  application  personally  or  by 

letter,  he  may  now  obtain  the  information  he  sought  for.  " 

"Morton!  The  woman's  brother!  their  uncle!  it  is  too 
clear!" 

"But  what  brings  this  man,  if  he  be  really  Philip  Morton, 
—  what  brings  him  here?     To  spy  or  to  threaten?" 

"I  will  get  him  out  of  the  house  this  day." 

"No,  no;  turn  the  watch  upon  Jiim.telf.  I  see  now;  he  is 
attracted  by  your  daughter.  Sound  her  quietly;  don't  tell 
her  to  discourage  his  confidences ;  find  out  if  he  ever  speaks 
of  these  Mortons.     Ha!     I  recollect.     He  has  spoken  to  me 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  443 

of  the  Mortons,  but  vaguely,  —  I  forget  what.  Humph!  this 
is  a  man  of  spirit  and  daring.  Watch  him,  I  say, —  watch 
him!     When  does  Arthur  come  back?" 

"  He  has  been  travelling  so  slowly,  for  he  still  complains 
of  his  health,  and  has  had  relapses;  but  he  ought  to  be  in 
Paris  this  week, — perhaps  he  is  there  now.  Good  heavens! 
he  must  not  meet  this  man !  " 

"Do  what  I  tell  you!  Get  out  all  from  your  daughter. 
Never  fear;  he  can  do  nothing  against  you  except  by  law. 
But  if  he  really  like  Camilla  — " 

"He!     Philip  Morton, —  the  adventurer,  the  —  " 

"  He  is  the  eldest  son :  remember  you  thought  even  of  ac- 
cepting the  second.  He  may  find  the  witness ;  he  may  win 
his  suit.     If  he  like  Camilla,  there  may  be  a  compromise." 

Mr.  Beaufort  felt  as  if  turned  to  ice. 

"You  think  him  likely  to  win  this  infamous  suit,  then?" 
he  faltered. 

"  Did  not  you  guard  against  the  possibility  by  securing  the 
brother?  More  worth  while  to  do  it  with  this  man.  Hark 
ye!  the  politics  of  private  are  like  those  of  public  life, — 
when  the  state  can't  crush  a  demagogue,  it  should  entice  him 
over.  If  you  can  ruin  this  dog  "  (and  Lilburne  stamped  his 
foot  fiercely,  forgetful  of  the  gout),  "ruin  him!  hang  him! 
If  you  can't "  (and  here  with  a  wry  face  he  caressed  the  in- 
jured foot),  "  if  you  can't  ('sdeath,  what  a  twinge !),  and  he 
can  ruin  you, — bring  him  into  the  family,  and  make  his 
secret  ours/  I  must  go  and  lie  down, —  I  have  over-excited 
myself." 

In  great  perplexity  Beaufort  repaired  at  once  to  Camilla. 
His  nervous  agitation  betrayed  itself,  though  he  smiled  a 
ghastly  smile,  and  intended  to  be  exceeding  cool  and  collected. 
His  questions,  which  confused  and  alarmed  her,  soon  drew 
out  the  fact  that  the  very  first  time  Vaudemont  had  been  in- 
troduced to  her  he  had  spoken  of  the  Mortons ;  and  that  he 
had  often  afterwards  alluded  to  the  subject,  and  seemed  at 
first  strongly  impressed  with  the  notion  that  the  younger 
brother  was  under  Beaufort's  protection,  though  at  last  he 
appeared   reluctantly   convinced   of   the   contrary.      Robert, 


444  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

however  agitated,  preserved  at  least  enough  of  his  natural 
slyness  not  to  let  out  that  he  suspected  Vaudemont  to  be 
Philip  Morton  himself,  for  he  feared  lest  his  daughter  should 
betray  that  suspicion  to  its  object. 

"But,"  he  said,  with  a  look  meant  to  win  confidence,  "I 
dare  say  he  knows  these  young  men.  I  should  like  myself  to 
know  more  about  them.  Learn  all  you  can,  and  tell  me,  and 
I  say, —  I  say,  Camilla, — he,  he,  he! — yoii  have  made  a  con- 
quest, you  little  flirt,  you!  Did  he,  this  Vaudemont,  ever 
say  how  much  he  admired  you?" 

"  He !  never !  "  said  Camilla,  blushing,  and  then  turning 
pale. 

"  But  he  looks  it.  Ah,  you  say  nothing,  then.  Well,  well, 
don't  discourage  him;  that  is  to  say, — yes,  don't  discourage 
him.  Talk  to  him  as  much  as  you  can, — ask  him  about  his 
own  early  life.  I  've  a  particular  wish  to  know  —  't  is  of 
great  importance  to  me." 

"But,  my  dear  father,"  said  Camilla,  trembling,  and  thor- 
oughly bewildered,  "I  fear  this  man, —  I  fear  —  I  fear  —  " 

Was  she  going  to  add,  "I  fear  myself"?  I  know  not; 
but  she  stopped  short,   and  burst  into  tears. 

"Hang  these  girls!"  muttered  Mr.  Beaufort, —  "always 
crying  when  they  ought  to  be  of  use  to  one.  Go  down,  dry 
your  eyes,  do  as  I  tell  you, —  get  all  you  can  from  him.  Fear 
him !  yes,  I  dare  say  she  does !  "  muttered  the  poor  man,  as 
he  closed  the  door. 

From  that  time  what  wonder  that  Camilla's  manner  to 
Vaudemont  was  yet  more  embarrassed  than  ever;  what  won- 
der that  he  put  his  own  heart's  interpretation  on  that  confu- 
sion? Beaufort  took  care  to  thrust  her  more  often  than 
before  in  his  way;  he  suddenlj^  affected  a  creeping,  fawning 
civility  to  Vaudemont;  he  was  sure  he  was  fond  of  music; 
what  did  he  think  of  that  new  air  Camilla  was  so  fond  of? 
He  must  be  a  judge  of  scenery,  he  who  had  seen  so  much  : 
there  were  beautiful  landscapes  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  if 
he  would  forego  his  sports,  Camilla  drew  prettily,  had  an  eye 
for  that  sort  of  thing,  and  was  so  fond  of  riding. 

Vaudemont  was  astonished  at  this  change,  but  his  delight 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  445 

was  greater  than  the  astonishment.  He  began  to  perceive 
that  his  identity  "was  susi:)ected ;  perhaps  Beaufort,  more  gen- 
erous than  he  had  deemed  him,  meant  to  repay  every  early 
wrong  or  harshness  by  one  inestimable  blessing.  The  gen- 
erous interpret  motives  in  extremes, —  ever  too  enthusiastic 
or  too  severe.  Vaudemont  felt  as  if  he  had  wronged  the 
wronger;  he  began  to  conquer  even  his  dislike  to  Robert 
Beaufort.  For  some  days  he  was  thus  thrown  much  with 
Camilla;  the  questions  her  father  forced  her  to  put  to  him, 
uttered  tremulously  and  fearfully,  seemed  to  him  proof  of  her 
interest  in  his  fate.  His  feelings  to  Camilla,  so  sudden  in 
their  growth,  so  ripened  and  so  favoured  by  the  Sub-Ruler  of 
the  world, —  Circumstance, —  might  not  perhaps  have  the 
depth  and  the  calm  completeness  of  that  One  True  Love,  of 
which  there  are  many  counterfeits, —  and  which  in  Man,  at 
least,  possibly  requires  the  touch  and  mellowness,  if  not  of 
time,  at  least  of  many  memories,  of  perfect  and  tried  convic- 
tion of  the  faith,  the  worth,  the  value,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
heart  to  which  it  clings ;  but  those  feelings  were,  neverthe- 
less, strong,  ardent,  and  intense.  He  believed  himself  be- 
loved,—  he  was  in  Elysium;  but  he  did  not  yet  declare  the 
passion  that  beamed  in  his  eyes.  No!  he  would  not  yet  claim 
the  hand  of  Camilla  Beaufort,  for  he  imagined  the  time  would 
soon  come  when  he  could  claim  it,  not  as  the  inferior  or  the 
suppliant,  but  as  the  lord  of  her  father's  fate. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Here  's  something  got  amongst  us!  —  Knight  of  Malta. 

Two  or  three  nights  after  his  memorable  conversation  with 
Robert  Beaufort,  as  Lord  Lilburne  was  undressing,  he  said  to 
his  valet,  — 

"Dykeman,  I  am  getting  well." 

"Indeed,  my  lord,  I  never  saw  your  lordship  look  better." 


446  NIGIIT   AXD   MORNING. 

"There  you  lie.  I  looked  better  last  year,  I  looked  better 
the  year  before,  and  I  looked  better  and  better  every  year 
back  to  the  age  of  twenty-one !  But  I  'm  not  talking  of  looks, 
—  no  man  with  money  wants  looks.  I  am  talking  of  feelings. 
I  fed  better.  The  gout  is  almost  gone.  I  have  been  quiet 
now  for  a  month;  that 's  a  long  time,  — time  wasted  when,  at 
my  age,  I  have  so  little  time  to  waste.  Besides,  as  you  know, 
I  am  very  much  in  love !  " 

"In  love,  my  lord?  I  thought  that  you  told  me  never  to 
speak  of  —  " 

"Blockhead!  what  the  deuce  was  the  good  of  speaking 
about  it  when  I  was  wrapped  in  flannels !  I  am  never  in  love 
when  I  am  ill,  — who  is?  I  am  well  now,  or  nearly  so;  and 
1  've  had  things  to  vex  me,  —  things  to  make  this  place  very 
disagreeable;  I  shall  go  to  town,  and  before  this  day  week, 
perhaps,  that  charming  face  may  enliven  the  solitude  of 
Fernside.  I  shall  look  to  it  myself  now.  I  see  you  're  going 
to  say  something.  Spare  yourself  the  trouble!  nothing  ever 
goes  wrong  if  /  myself  take  it  in  hand." 

The  next  day  Lord  Lilburne,  who,  in  truth,  felt  himself 
uncomfortable  and  gent  in  the  presence  of  Vaudemont;  who 
had  won  as  much  as  the  guests  at  Beaufort  Court  seemed 
inclined  to  lose;  and  who  made  it  the  rule  of  his  life  to  con- 
sult his  own  pleasure  and  amusement  before  anything  else, 
sent  for  his  post-horses,  and  informed  his  brother-in-law  of 
his  departure. 

"  And  you  leave  me  alone  with  this  man  just  when  I  am 
convinced  that  he  is  the  person  we  suspected !  My  dear  Lil- 
burne, do  stay  till  he  goes." 

"  Impossible !  I  am  between  fifty  and  sixty,  —  every  moment 
is  precious  at  that  time  of  life.  Besides,  I  've  said  all  I  can 
say, — rest  quiet;  act  on  the  defensive;  entangle  this  cursed 
Vaudemont,  or  Morton,  or  whoever  he  be,  in  the  mesh  of  your 
daughter's  charms,  and  then  get  rid  of  him,  not  before.  This 
can  do  no  harm,  let  the  matter  turn  out  how  it  will.  Read 
the  papers ;  and  send  for  Blackwell  if  you  want  advice  on  any 
new  advertisements.  I  don't  see  that  anything  more  is  to  be 
done  at  present.     You  can  write  to  me;  1  shall  be  at  Park 


XIGIIT   AND   MORNING.  447 

Lane  or  Fernside.  Take  care  of  yourself.  You  're  a  lucky 
fellow, — you  never  have  the  gout!     Good-by." 

And  in  half  an  hour  Lord  Lilburne  was  on  the  road  to 
London. 

The  departure  of  Lilburne  was  a  signal  to  many  others, 
especially  and  naturally  to  those  he  himself  had  invited.  He 
had  not  announced  to  such  visitors  his  intention  of  going  till 
his  carriage  was  at  the  door.  This  might  be  delicacy  or  care- 
lessaess,  just  as  people  chose  to  take  it;  and  how  they  did 
take  it,  Lord  Lilburne,  much  too  selfish  to  be  well-bred,  did 
not  care  a  rush.  The  next  day  half  at  least  of  the  guests  were 
gone;  and  even  Mr.  Marsden,  who  had  been  specially  invited 
on  Arthur's  account,  announced  that  he  should  go  after  din- 
ner! he  always  travelled  by  night, — he  slept  well  on  the 
road;  a  day  was  not  lost  by  it. 

"And  it  is  so  long  since  you  saw  Arthur,"  said  Mr.  Beau- 
fort,  in  remonstrance,    "and  I  expect  him  every  day." 

"Very  sorry, — best  fellow  in  the  world;  but  the  fact  is, 
that  I  am  not  very  well  myself.  I  want  a  little  sea  air;  I 
shall  go  to  Dover  or  Brighton.  But  I  suppose  you  will  have 
the  house  full  again  about  Christmas ;  in  that  case  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  repeat  my  visit." 

The  fact  was,  that  Mr.  Marsden,  without  Lilburne's  intel- 
lect on  the  one  hand  or  vices  on  the  other,  was,  like  that  noble 
sensualist,  one  of  the  broken  pieces  of  the  great  looking-glass, 
"Self."  He  was  noticed  in  society  as  always  haunting  the 
places  where  Lilburne  played  at  cards,  carefully  choosing 
some  other  table,  and  as  carefully  betting  upon  Lilburne's 
side.  The  card-tables  were  now  broken  up;  Vaudemont's 
superiority  in  shooting,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  engrossed 
the  talk  of  the  sportsmen,  displeased  him.  He  was  bored; 
he  wanted  to  be  off,  —  and  off  he  went.  Vaudemont  felt  that 
the  time  was  come  for  him  to  depart  too;  but  Eobert  Beaufort 
—  who  felt  in  his  society  the  painful  fascination  of  the  bird 
with  the  boa,  who  hated  to  see  him  there  and  dreaded  to  see 
him  depart,  who  had  not  yet  extracted  all  the  confirmation  of 
his  persuasions  that  he  required,  for  Vaudemont  easily  enough 
parried  the  artless  questions  of  Camilla  —  pressed  him  to  stay 


448  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

with  so  eager  a  hospitality,  and  made  Camilla  herself  falter 
out,  against  her  will,  and  even  against  her  remonstrances  — 
she  never  before  had  dared  to  remonstrate  with  either  father 
or  mother,  — "Could  not  you  stay  a  few  days  longer?"  that 
Vaudemont  was  too  contented  to  yield  to  his  own  inclinations ; 
and  so  for  some  little  time  longer  he  continued  to  move  before 
the  eyes  of  Mr.  Beaufort,  — stern,  sinister,  silent,  mysterious, 
like  one  of  the  family  pictures  stepped  down  from  its  frame. 
Vaudemont  wrote,  however,  to  Fanny,  to  excuse  his  delay; 
and  anxious  to  hear  from  her  as  to  her  own  and  Simon's 
health,  bade  her  direct  her  letter  to  his  lodging  in  London  (of 
which  he  gave  her  the  address),  whence,  if  he  still  continued 
to  defer  his  departure,  it  would  be  forwarded  to  him.  He  did 
not  do  this,  however,  till  he  had  been  at  Beaufort  Court  sev- 
eral days  after  Lilburne's  departure,  and  till,  in  fact,  two  days 
before  the  eventful  one  which  closed  his  visit. 

The  party,  now  greatly  diminished,  were  at  breakfast,  when 
the  servant  entered,  as  usual,  with  the  letter-bag.  Mr.  Beau- 
fort, who  was  always  important  and  pompous  in  the  small 
ceremonials  of  life,  unlocked  the  precious  deposit  with  slow 
dignity,  drew  forth  the  newspapers,  which  he  threw  on  the 
table  and  which  the  gentlemen  of  the  party  eagerly  seized; 
then,  diving  out  one  by  one,  jerked  first  a  letter  to  Camilla, 
next  a  letter  to  Vaudemont,  and  thirdly,  seized  a  letter  for 
himself. 

"  I  beg  that  there  may  be  no  ceremony,  Monsieur  de  Vaude- 
mont. Pray  excuse  me  and  follow  my  example;  I  see  this 
letter  is  from  my  son;  "  and  he  broke  the  seal. 

The  letter  ran  thus :  — 

My  dear  Father,  —  Almost  as  soon  as  you  receive  this,  I  shall  he 
with  you.     m  as  I  am,  I  can  have  no  peace  till  I  see  and  consult  you. 
The  most  startling,  the  most  painful  intelligence  has  just  been  conveyed 
to  me.     It  is  of  a  nature  not  to  bear  any  but  personal  communication. 
Your  affectionate  son, 

Arthur  Beaufort. 
Boulogne. 

P.  S.  —  This  will  go  by  the  same  packet-boat  that  I  shall  take  myself, 
and  can  only  reach  you  a  few  hours  before  I  arrive. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  449 

Mr.  Beaufort's  trembling  hand  dropped  the  letter;  he 
grasped  the  elbow  of  the  chair  to  save  himself  from  falling. 
It  was  clear!  —  the  same  visitor  who  had  persecuted  himself 
had  now  sought  his  son!  He  grew  sick;  his  son  might  have 
heard  the  witness, — might  be  convinced.  His  son  himself 
now  appeared  to  him  as  a  foe,  for  the  father  dreaded  the  son's 
honour!  He  glanced  furtively  round  the  table  till  his  eye 
rested  on  Vaudemont,  and  his  terror  was  redoubled,  for  Vaude- 
mont's  face,  usually  so  calm,  was  animated  to  an  extraordi- 
nary degree,  as  he  now  lifted  it  from  the  letter  he  had  just 
read.  Their  eyes  met.  Robert  Beaufort  looked  on  him  as  a 
prisoner  at  the  bar  looks  on  the  accusing  counsel,  when  he  first 
commences  his  harangue. 

"  Mr.  Beaufort, "  said  the  guest,  "  the  letter  you  have  given 
me  summons  me  to  London  on  important  business,  and  imme- 
diately. Suffer  me  to  send  for  horses  at  your  earliest 
convenience." 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  feeble  and  seldom-heard 
voice  of  Mrs.  Beaufort.  *'  What 's  the  matter,  Robert,  —  is 
Arthur  coming?" 

"He  comes  to-day,"  said  the  father,  with  a  deep  sigh;  and 
Vaudemont,  at  that  moment  rising  from  his  half-finished 
breakfast,  with  a  bow  that  included  the  group  and  with  a 
glance  that  lingered  on  Camilla,  as  she  bent  over  her  own 
unopened  letter  (a  letter  from  Winandermere,  the  seal  of 
which  she  dared  not  yet  to  break),  quitted  the  room.  He 
hastened  to  his  own  chamber,  and  strode  to  and  fro  with  a 
statel}^  step,  — the  step  of  the  Master  ;  then,  taking  forth  the 
letter,  he  again  hurried  over  its  contents.     They  ran  thus :  — 

Dear  Sir,  —  At  last  the  missing  witness  has  applied  to  me.  He 
proves  to  be,  as  you  conjectured,  the  same  person  who  had  called  on 
Mr.  Roger  Morton  ;  but  as  there  are  some  circumstances  on  whiifh  I 
wish  to  take  your  instructions  without  a  moment's  delay  I  shall  leave 

London  by  the  mail,  and  wait  you  at  D (at  the   principal   inn)» 

which  is,  I  understand,  twenty  miles  on  the  high  road  from   Beaufort 
(Sourt. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  sir,  yours,  etc., 

Jonx  Bari-Ow. 
Essex  Street, 

29 


450  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Vaudemont  was  yet  lost  in  the  emotions  that  this  letter 
aroused,  when  they  came  to  announce  that  his  chaise  was 
arrived.  As  he  went  down  the  stairs  he  met  Camilla,  who 
was  on  the  way  to  her  own  room. 

"Miss  Beaufort,"  said  he,  in  a  low  and  tremulous  voice,  "in 
wishing  you  farewell  I  may  not  now  say  more.  I  leave  you, 
and,  strange  to  say,  I  do  not  regret  it,  for  I  go  upon  an  errand 
that  may  entitle  me  to  return  again,  and  speak  those  thoughts 
which  are  uppermost  in  my  soul  even  at  this  moment," 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  as  he  spoke,  and  at  that 
moment  Mr,  Beaufort  looked  from  the  door  of  his  own  room, 
and  cried,  "Camilla,"  She  was  too  glad  to  escape.  Philip 
gazed  after  her  light  form  for  an  instant,  and  then  hurried 
down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Longv£viIIe.  —  What !  are  yon  married,  Beaufort  ? 

Beaufort.  —  Ay,  as  fast 

As  words  and  hands  and  hearts  and  priest 

Could  make  us.  —  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  Noble  Gentleman. 

In  the  parlour  of  the  inn  at  D sat  Mr,  John  Barlow, 

He  had  just  finished  his  breakast,  and  was  writing  letters  and 
looking  over  papers  connected  with  his  various  business,  when 
the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a  gentleman  entered  abruptl}-, 

"Mr.  Beaufort,"  said  the  lawyer,  rising,  "Mr,  Philip  Beau- 
fort,—  for  such  I  now  feel  you  are  by  right,  though,"  he 
added,  with  his  usual  formal  and  quiet  smile,  "not yet  b}'  lawj 
and  much,  very  much,  remains  to  be  done  to  make  the  law 
and  the  right  the  same,  — I  congratulate  you  on  having  some- 
thing at  last  to  work  on,  I  had  begun  to  despair  of  finding  our 
witness,  after  a  month's  advertising;  and  had  commenced  other 
investigations,  of  which  I  will  speak  to  you  presently,  when 
yesterday,   on  my  return  to  town  from  an  errand  on   your 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  451 

business,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a  visit  from  William  Smith 
himself.  —  My  clear  sir,  do  not  yet  be  too  sanguine.  —  It  seems 
that  this  poor  fellow,  having  known  misfortune,  was  in  Amer- 
ica when  the  first  fruitless  inquiries  were  made.  Long  after 
this  he  returned  to  the  colony  and  there  met  with  a  brother, 
who,  as  I  drew  from  him,  was  a  convict.  He  helped  the 
brother  to  escape.  They  both  came  to  England.  William 
learned  from  a  distant  relation,  who  lent  him  some  little 
money,  of  the  inquiry  that  had  been  set  on  foot  for  him; 
consulted  his  brother,  who  desired  him  to  leave  all  to  his 
management.  The  brother  afterwards  assured  him  that  you 
and  Mr.  Sidney  were  both  dead;  and  it  seems  (for  the  witness 
is  simple  enough  to  allow  me  to  extract  all)  this  same  brother 
then  went  to  Mr.  Beaufort  to  hold  out  the  threat  of  a  lawsuit, 
and  to  offer  the  sale  of  the  evidence  yet  existing  —  " 

"And  Mr.  Beaufort?" 

"I  am  happy  to  say,  seems  to  have  spurned  the  offer. 
Meanwhile  William,  incredulous  of  his  brother's  report,  pro- 
ceeded to  N ,  learned  nothing  from  Mr.  Morton,  met  his 

brother  again,  and  the  brother  (confessing  that  he  had  de- 
ceived him  in  the  assertion  that  you  and  Mr.  Sidney  were 
dead)  told  him  that  he  had  known  you  in  earlier  life,  and  set 
out  to  Paris  to  seek  you  —  " 

"Known  me?     To  Paris?" 

"More  of  this  presently.  William  returned  to  town,  living 
hardly  and  penuriously  on  the  little  his  brother  bestowed  on 
him,  too  melancholy  and  too  poor  for  the  luxury  of  a  news- 
paper, and  never  saw  our  advertisement,  till,  as  luck  would 
have  it,  his  money  was  out.  He  had  heard  nothing  further 
of  his  brother,  and  he  went  for  new  assistance  to  the  same 
relation  who  had  before  aided  him.  This  relation,  to  his  sur- 
prise, received  the  poor  man  very  kindly,  lent  him  what  he 
wanted,  and  then  asked  him  if  he  had  not  seen  our  adver- 
tisement. The  newspaper  shown  him  contained  both  the 
advertisements, — that  relating  to  Mr.  Morton's  visitor,  that 
containing  his  own  name.  He  coupled  them  both  together, 
called  on  me  at  once.  I  was  from  town  on  your  business. 
He  returned  to  his  own  home;  the  next  morning  (yesterday 


452  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

morning)  came  a  letter  from  his  brother,  which  I  obtained 
from  him  at  last,  and  with  promises  that  no  harm  should  hap- 
pen to  the  writer  on  account  of  it." 

Vaudemont  took  the  letter  and  read  as  follows :  — 

Dear  William,  —  No  go  about  the  youngster  I  went  after:  all 
researches  in  vane.     Paris  develish    expensive.     Never    mind,  I  have 

sene  the  other,  the  young  B ;  different  sort  of  fellow  from  his  father ; 

very  ill,  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  will  go  off  to  the  governor,  take  me 
with  him  as  far  as  BuUone.  I  think  we  shall  settel  it  now.  Mind,  as  I 
saide  before,  don't  put  your  foot  in  it.  1  send  you  a  Nap  in  the  Seele, — 
all  I  can  spare.  Yours, 

Jeremiah  Smith. 

Direct  to  me,  M.  Smith,  —  always  a  safe  name,  —  Ship  Inn,  Bullone." 

*'  Jeremiah  —  Smith  —  Jeremiah !  " 

" Do  you  know  the  name,  then?  "  said  Mr.  Barlow.  "Well; 
the  poor  man  owns  that  he  was  frightened  at  his  brother,  that 
he  wished  to  do  what  is  right,  that  he  feared  his  brother  would 
not  let  him,  that  your  father  was  very  kind  to  him,  and  so  he 
came  off  at  once  to  me;  and  I  was  very  luckily  at  home  to 
assure  him  that  the  heir  was  alive,  and  prepared  to  assert  his 
rights.  Now  then,  Mr.  Beaufort,  we  have  the  witness;  but 
will  that  suffice  us?  I  fear  not.  "Will  the  jury  believe  him 
with  no  other  testimony  at  his  back?  Consider!  When  he 
was  gone  I  put  myself  in  communication  with  some  officers  at 
Bow  Street  about  this  brother  of  his,  —  a  most  notorious 
character,  commonly  called  in  the  police  slang  Dashing 
Jerry  —  " 

"Ah!     Well,  proceed!" 

"Your  one  witness,  then,  is  a  very  poor,  penniless  man; 
his  brother,  a  rogue,  a  convict.  This  witness,  too,  is  the 
most  timid,  fluctuating,  irresolute  fellow  I  ever  saw;  I  should 
tremble  for  his  testimony  against  a  sharp,  bullying  lawyer. 
And  that,  sir,  is  all  at  present  we  have  to  look  to." 

"  I  see,  I  see.  It  is  dangerous,  it  is  hazardous.  But  truth 
is  truth;  justice,  justice!     I  will  run  the  risk." 

"Pardon    me,  if   T  ask  did   you  ever   know  this  brother. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  453 

Were  you  ever  absolutely  acquainted  with  him,  —  iu  the 
same  house?" 

"Many  years  since  —  years  of  early  hardship  and  trial  —  I 
%oas  acquainted  with  him,  — what  then?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  and  the  lawyer  looked  grave.  "  Do 
you  not  see  that  if  this  witness  is  browbeat,  is  disbelieved, 
and  if  it  can  be  shown  that  you,  the  claimant,  was  —  forgive 
my  saying  it  —  intimate  with  a  brother  of  such  a  character, 
why  the  whole  thing  might  be  made  to  look  like  perjury  and 
conspiracy.     If  we  stop  here  it  is  an  ugly  business!  " 

"And  is  this  all  you  have  to  say  to  me?  The  witness  is 
found,  the  only  surviving  witness, — the  only  proof  I  ever 
shall  or  ever  can  obtain,  and  you  seek  to  terrify  me  —  me  too 

—  from  using  the  means  for  redress  Providence  itself  vouch- 
safes me!     Sir,  I  will  not  hear  you!  " 

"  Mr,  Beaufort,  you  are  impatient,  —  it  is  natural.  But  if 
we  go  to  law,  —  that  is,  should  I  have  anything  to  do  with  it, 

—  wait,  wait  till  your  case  is  good.  And  hear  me  yet.  This 
is  not  the  only  proof;  this  is  not  the  only  witness.  You 
forget  that  there  was  an  examined  copy  of  the  register;  we 
may  yet  find  that  copy,  and  the  person  who  copied  it  may  yet 
be  alive  to  attest  it.  Occupied  with  this  thought,  and  weary 
of  waiting  the  result  of  our  advertisement,  I  resolved  to  go 
into  the  neighbourhood  of  Fernside;  luckily,  there  was  a  gen- 
tleman's seat  to  be  sold  in  the  village,  I  made  the  survey  of 
this  place  my  apparent  business.  After  going  over  the  house, 
I  appeared  anxious  to  see  how  far  some  alterations  could  be 
made, — alterations  to  render  it  more  like  Lord  Lilburne's 
villa.  This  led  me  to  request  a  sight  of  that  villa,  —  a  crown 
to  the  housekeeper  got  me  admittance.  The  housekeeper  had 
lived  with  your  father,  and  been  retained  by  his  lordship.  1 
soon,  therefore,  knew  which  were  the  rooms  the  late  Mr, 
Beaufort  had  principally  occupied;  shown  into  his  study, 
where  it  was  probable  he  would  keep  his  papers,  I  inquired 
if  it  were  the  same  furniture  (which  seemed  likely  enough 
from  its  age  and  fashion)  as  in  your  father's  time.  It  was  so; 
Lord  Lilburne  had  bought  the  house  just  as  it  stood,  and  save 
a  few  additions  in  the  drawing-room,  the  general  equipment 


454  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

of  the  villa  remained  unaltered.  You  look  impatient !  I  'm 
coming  to  the  point.  My  eye  fell  upon  an  old-fashioned 
bureau  —  " 

"  But  we  searched  every  drawer  in  that  bureau ! " 

"Any  secret  drawers?" 

"  Secret  drawers !  No,  there  were  no  secret  drawers  that  I 
ever  heard  of! " 

Mr.  Barlow  rubbed  his  hands  and  mused  a  moment. 

"  I  was  struck  with  that  bureau,  for  iny  father  had  had  one 
like  it.     It  is  not  English,  — it  is  of  Dutch  manufacture." 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  that  my  father  bought  it  at  a  sale,  three 
or  four  years  after  his  marriage." 

"  I  learned  this  from  the  housekeeper,  who  was  flattered  by 
my  admiring  it.  I  could  not  find  out  from  her  at  what  sale  it 
had  been  purchased,  but  it  was  in  the  neighbourhood  she  was 
sure.  I  had  now  a  date  to  go  upon;  I  learned,  by  careless 
inquiries,  what  sales  near  Fernside  had  taken  place  in  a  cer- 
tain year.  A  gentleman  had  died  at  that  date,  whose  furni- 
ture was  sold  by  auction.  With  great  difficulty,  I  found 
that  his  widow  was  still  alive,  living  far  up  the  country:  I 
paid  her  a  visit;  and,  not  to  fatigue  you  with  too  long  an 
account,  I  have  only  to  say  that  she  not  only  assured  me  that 
she  perfectly  remembered  the  bureau,  but  that  it  had  secret 
drawers  and  wells,  very  curiously  contrived ;  nay,  she  showed 
me  the  very  catalogue  in  which  the  said  receptacles  are  noticed 
in  capitals,  to  arrest  the  eye  of  the  bidder,  and  increase  the 
price  of  the  bidding.  That  your  father  should  never  have 
revealed  where  he  stowed  this  document  is  natural  enough 
during  the  life  of  his  uncle;  his  own  life  was  not  spared  long 
enough  to  give  him  much  opportunity  to  explain  afterwards ; 
but  I  feel  perfectly  persuaded  in  my  own  mind,  that  unless 
Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  discovered  that  paper  amongst  the  others 
he  examined,  in  one  of  those  drawers  will  be  found  all  we 
want  to  substantiate  your  claims.  This  is  the  more  likely 
from  your  father  never  mentioning,  even  to  your  mother  ap- 
parently, the  secret  receptacles  in  the  bureau.  Why  else  such 
mystery?  The  probability  is  that  he  received  the  document 
either  just  before. or  at  the  time  he  purchased  the  bureau,  or 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  455 

that  he  bought  it  for  that  very  purpose;  and,  having  once 
deposited  the  paper  in  a  place  he  deemed  secure  from  curi- 
osity, accident,  carelessness,  policy,  perhaps,  rather  shame 
itself  (pardon  me)  for  the  doubt  of  your  mother's  discretion 
that  his  secrecy  seemed  to  imply,  kept  him  from  ever  allud- 
ing to  the  circumstance,  even  when  the  intimacy  of  after-years 
made  him  more  assured  of  your  mother's  self-sacriiicing  devo- 
tion to  his  interests.  At  his  uncle's  death  he  thought  to 
repair  all ! " 

"And  how,  if  that  be  true,  if  that  Heaven  which  has 
delivered  me  hitherto  from  so  many  dangers,  has  in  the  very 
secrecy  of  my  poor  father  saved  my  birthright  from  the  gripe 
of  the  usurper,  —  how,  I  say,  is  —  " 

"The  bureau  to  pass  into  our  possession?  That  is  the  diffi- 
culty. But  we  must  contrive  it  somehow,  if  all  else  fail  us ; 
meanwhile,  as  I  now  feel  sure  that  there  has  been  a  copy  of 
that  register  made,  I  wish  to  know  whether  I  should  not  im- 
mediately cross  the  country  into  Wales,  and  see  if  I  can  find 

any  person  in  the  neighbourhood  of  A who  did  examine 

the  copy  taken :  for,  mark  you,  the  said  copy  is  only  of  impor- 
tance as  leading  us  to  the  testimony  of  the  actual  witness  who 
took  it." 

"  Sir,"  said  Vaudemont,  heartily  shaking  Mr.  Barlow  by  the 
hand,  "  forgive  my  first  petiilance.  I  see  in  you  the  very  man 
I  desired  and  wanted;  your  acuteness  surprises  and  encourages 
me.     Go  to  Wales,  and  God  speed  you !  " 

"  Very  well !  in  five  minutes  I  shall  be  off.  Meanwhile,  see 
the  witness  yourself;  the  sight  of  his  benefactor's  son  will  do 
more  to  keep  him  steady  than  anything  else.  There  's  his 
address,  and  take  care  not  to  give  him  money.  And  now  I 
will  order  my  chaise,  —  the  matter  begins  to  look  worth  ex- 
pense. Oh,  I  forgot  to  say  that  M.  Liancourt  called  on  me 
yesterday  about  his  own  affairs.  He  wishes  much  to  consult 
you.  I  told  him  you  would  probably  be  this  evening  in  town, 
and  he  said  he  would  wait  you  at  your  lodging." 

"Yes,  I  will  lose  not  a  moment  in  going  to  London,  and 
visiting  our  witness.  And  he  saw  my  mother  at  the  altar! 
My  poor  mother  —    Ah,  how  could  my  father  have  doubted 


456  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

her!"  and  as  he  spoke,  he  blushed  for  the  first  time  with 
shame  at  that  father's  memory.  He  could  not  yet  conceive 
that  one  so  frank,  one  usually  so  bold  and  open,  could  for 
years  have  preserved  from  the  woman  who  had  sacrificed  all 
to  him  a  secret  to  her  so  important!  That  was,  in  fact,  the 
only  blot  on  his  father's  honour,  — a  foul  and  a  grave  blot  it 
was.  Heavily  had  the  punishment  fallen  on  those  whom  the 
father  loved  best!  Alas,  Philip  had  not  yet  learned  what  ter- 
rible corrupters  are  the  Hope  and  the  Fear  of  immense  Wealth, 

—  ay,  even  to  men  reputed  the  most  honourable,  if  they  have 
been  reared  and  pampered  in  the  belief  that  wealth  is  the  Arch 
blessing  of  life!  Rightly  considered,  in  Philip  Beaufort's 
solitary  meanness  lay  the  vast  moral  of  this  world's  darkest 
truth! 

Mr.  Barlow  was  gone.  Philip  was  about  to  enter  his  own 
chaise,  when  a  dor  mens  e-and-f  our  drove  up  to  the  inn-door  to 
change  horses.  A  young  man  was  reclining,  at  his  length,  in 
the  carriage,  wrapped  in  cloaks,  and  with  a  ghastly  paleness 

—  the  paleness  of  long  and  deep  disease  —  upon  his  cheeks. 
He  turned  his  dim  eye  with,  perhaps,  a  glance  of  the  sick 
man's  envy  on  that  strong  and  athletic  form,  majestic  with 
health  and  vigour,  as  it  stood  beside  the  more  humble  vehicle. 
Philip  did  not,  however,  notice  the  new  arrival;  he  sprang 
into  the  chaise,  it  rattled  on;  and  thus,  unconsciously,  Arthur 
Beaufort  and  his  cousin  had  again  met.  To  which  was  now 
the  Night,  to  which  the  Morning? 


CHAPTER  XIT. 

Balcam.  —  Let  my  men  guard  the  walls. 

Sijana.  —  And  mine  the  temple.  —  The  Island  Princess. 

While  thus  eventfully  the  days  and  the  weeks  had  passed 
for  Philip,  no  less  eventfully,  so  far  as  the  inner  life  is  con- 
cerned, had  they  glided  away  for  Fanny.  She  had  feasted  in 
quiet  and  delighted  thought  on  the  consciousness  that  she  was 


NIGHT   AND   MOKNING.  457 

improving,  that  she  was  growing  worthier  of  him,  that  he 
would  perceive  it  on  his  return.  Her  manner  was  more 
thoughtful,  more  collected, —  less  childish,  in  short,  than  it 
had  been.  And  yet,  with  all  the  stir  and  flutter  of  the 
aroused  intellect,  the  charm  of  her  strange  innocence  was  not 
scared  away.  She  rejoiced  in  the  ancient  liberty  she  had  re- 
gained of  going  out  and  coming  back  when  she  pleased;  and 
as  the  weather  was  too  cold  ever  to  tempt  Simon  from  his  lire- 
side,  except  perhaps  for  half  an  hour  in  the  forenoon,  so  the 
hours  of  dusk,  when  he  least  missed  her,  were  those  which 
she  chiefly  appropriated  for  stealing  away  to  the  good  school- 
mistress, and  growing  wiser  and  wiser  every  day  in  the  ways 
of  God  and  the  learning  of  His  creatures.  The  schoolmis- 
tress was  not  a  brilliant  woman.  Nor  was  it  accomplishments 
of  which  Fanny  stood  in  need,  so  much  as  the  opening  of  her 
thoughts  and  mind  by  profitable  books  and  rational  conversa- 
tion. Beautiful  as  were  all  her  natural  feelings,  the  school- 
mistress had  now  little  difficulty  in  educating  feelings  up  to 
the  dignity  of  principles. 

At  last,  hitherto  patient  under  the  absence  of  one  never  ab- 
sent from  her  heart,  Fanny  received  from  him  the  letter  he 
had  addressed  to  her  two  days  before  he  quitted  Beaufort 
Court, —  another  letter,  a  second  letter,  a  letter  to  excuse  him- 
self for  not  coming  before,  a  letter  that  gave  her  an  address 
that  asked  for  a  reply.  It  was  a  morning  of  unequalled  de- 
light approaching  to  transport.  And  then  the  excitement  of 
answering  the  letter,  —  the  pride  of  showing  how  she  was  im- 
proved, what  an  excellent  hand  she  now  wrote!  She  shut 
herself  up  in  her  room;  she  did  not  go  out  that  day.  She 
placed  the  paper  before  her,  and  to  her  astonishment  all  that 
she  had  to  say  vanished  from  her  mind  at  once.  How  was 
she  even  to  begin?  She  had  always  hitherto  called  him 
"Brother."  Ever  since  her  conversation  with  Sarah  she  felt 
that  she  could  not  call  him  that  name  again  for  the  world, — 
no,  never!  But  what  should  she  call  him,  what  could  she 
call  him?  He  signed  himself  "Philip."  She  knew  that  was 
his  name.  She  thought  it  a  musical  name  to  utter,  but  to 
write  it!    No!  some  instinct  she  could  not  account  for  seemed 


458  XIGIIT  AXD  MORNING. 

to  wliisper  that  it  Avas  improper,  presumptuous,  to  call  him 
"Dear  Philip."  Had  Burus's  songs,  —  the  songs  that  un- 
thinkingly he  had  put  into  her  hand,  and  told  her  to  read, 
songs  that  comprise  the  most  beautiful  love-poems  in  the 
world,  —  had  they  helped  to  teach  her  some  of  the  secrets  of 
her  own  heart;  and  had  timidity  come  with  knowledge? 
Who  shall  say,  who  guess  what  passed  within  her?  Nor  did 
Fanny  herself,  perhaps,  know  her  own  feelings, —  but  write 
the  words  '' Dear  Fhiiijj"  she  could  not.  And  the  whole  of 
that  day,  though  she  thought  of  nothing  else,  she  could  not 
even  get  through  the  first  line  to  her  satisfaction.  The  next 
morning  she  sat  down  again.  It  would  be  so  unkind  if  she 
did  not  answer  immediately;  she  must  answer.  She  placed 
his  letter  before  her;  she  resolutely  began.  But  copy  after 
copy  was  made  and  torn.  And  Simon  wanted  her,  and  Sarah 
wanted  her,  and  there  were  bills  to  be  paid ;  and  dinner  was 
over  before  her  task  was  really  begun.  But  after  dinner  she 
began  in  good  earnest. 

"  How  kind  in  you  to  write  to  me  [the  difficulty  of  any  name  was 
dispensed  with  by  adopting  none]  and  to  wish  to  know  about  my  dear 
grandfather  1  He  is  much  the  same,  but  hardly  ever  walks  out 
now,  and  I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  time  to  myself.  I  think  something 
will  surprise  you  and  make  you  smile,  as  you  used  to  do  at  first,  when 
you  come  back.  You  must  not  be  angry  with  me  that  I  have  gone  out 
by  myself  very  often, —  every  day,  indeed.  I  have  been  so  safe.  Nobody 
has  ever  offered  to  be  rude  again  to  Fanny  [the  word  '  Fannij '  was  here 
carefully  scratched  out  with  a  penknife,  and  me  substituted].  But  you 
shall  know  all  when  you  come.  And  are  you  sure  you  are  well,—  quite, 
quite  well?  Do  you  never  have  the  headaches  you  complained  of  some- 
times? Do  say  this  !  Do  you  walk  out  every  day  ?  Is  there  any  pretty 
churchyard  near  you  now  ?     Whom  do  you  walk  with  ? 

"I  have  been  so  happy  in  putting  the  flowers  on  the  two  graves,  but 
I  still  give  yours  the  prettiest,  though  the  other  is  so  dear  to  me.  I 
feel  sad  when  I  come  to  the  last,  but  not  when  I  look  at  the  one  I  have 
looked  at  so  long.  Oh,  how  good  you  were  !  But  you  don't  like  me  to 
thank  you. " 

"This  is  very  stupid!"  cried  Fanny,  suddenly  throwing 
down  her  pen;   "and  I  don't  think  I  am  improved  at  all;" 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  459 

and  she  half  cried  with  vexation.  Suddenly  a  bright  idea 
crossed  her.  In  the  little  parlour  where  the  schoolmistress 
privately  received  her,  she  had  seen  among  the  books,  and 
thought  at  the  time  how  useful  it  might  be  to  her  if  ever  she 
had  to  write  to  Philip,  a  little  volume  entitled  "  The  Com- 
plete Letter  Writer."  She  knew  by  the  title-page  that  it 
contained  models  for  every  description  of  letter;  no  doubt  it 
would  contain  the  precise  thing  that  would  suit  the  present 
occasion.  She  started  up  at  the  notion.  She  would  go, —  she 
could  be  back  to  finish  the  letter  before  post-time.  She  put  on 
her  bonnet,  left  the  letter,  in  her  haste,  open  on  the  table,  and 
just  looking  into  the  parlour  in  her  way  to  tlie  street-door,  to 
convince  herself  that  Simon  was  asleep,  and  the  wire-guard 
was  on  the  fire,  she  hurried  to  the  kind  school-mistress. 

One  of  the  fogs  that  in  autumn  gather  sullenly  over  London 
and  its  suburbs  covered  the  declining  day  with  premature 
dimness.  It  grew  darker  and  darker  as  she  proceeded,  but 
she  reached  the  house  in  safety.  She  spent  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  timidly  consulting  her  friend  about  all  kinds  of  let- 
ters except  the  identical  one  that  she  intended  to  write;  and 
having  had  it  strongly  impressed  on  her  mind  that  if  the  let- 
ter was  to  a  gentleman  at  all  genteel,  she  ought  to  begin 
"Dear  Sir,"  and  end  with  "I  have  the  honour  to  remain," 
and  that  he  would  be  everlastingly  offended  if  she  did  not  in 
the  address  affix  "  Esquire  "  to  his  name  (that  was  a  great  dis- 
covery), —  she  carried  off  the  precious  volume,  and  quitted 
the  house.  There  was  a  wall  that,  bounding  the  demesnes  of 
the  school,  ran  for  some  short  distance  into  the  main  street. 
The  increasing  fog  here  faintly  struggled  against  the  glimmer 
of  a  single  lamp  at  some  little  distance.  Just  in  this  spot, 
her  eye  was  caught  by  a  dark  object  in  the  road,  which  she 
could  scarcely  perceive  to  be  a  carriage,  when  her  hand  was 
seized,  and  a  voice  said  in  her  ear,  — 

"  Ah,  you  will  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  I  hope,  as  you  were  to 
my  messenger!     I  have  come  myself  for  you." 

She  turned  in  great  alarm,  but  the  darkness  prevented  her 
recognizing  the  face  of  him  who  thus  accosted  her. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  cried, —  "let  me  go!" 


460  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

''Hush!  hush!  No,  no!  Come  with  me.  You  shall  have 
a  house,  carriage,  servants!  You  shall  wear  silk  gowns  and 
jewels !     You  shall  be  a  great  lady !  " 

As  these  various  temptations  succeeded  in  rapid  course 
each  new  struggle  of  Fanny,  a  voice  from  the  coach-box  said, 
in  a  low  tone, — 

"Take  care,  my  lord,  I  see  somebody  coming, —  perhaps  a 
policeman!  " 

Fanny  heard  the  caution,  and  screamed  for  rescue. 

"Is  it  so?"  muttered  the  molester.  And  suddenly  Fanny 
felt  her  voice  checked,  her  head  mantled,  her  light  form  lifted 
from  the  ground.  She  clung,  she  struggled;  it  was  in  vain. 
It  was  the  affair  of  a  moment;  she  felt  herself  borne  into  the 
carriage,  the  door  closed;  the  stranger  was  by  her  side,  and 
his  voice  said, — 

"Drive  on,  Dykeman.     Fast!  fast!" 

Two  or  three  minutes,  which  seemed  to  her  terror  as  ages, 
elapsed,  when  the  gag  and  the  mantle  were  gently  removed, 
and  the  same  voice  (she  still  could  not  see  her  companion) 
said  in  a  very  mild  tone, — 

"Do  not  alarm  yourself;  there  is  no  cause,  —  indeed  there 
is  not.  I  would  not  have  adopted  this  plan  had  there  been 
any  other,  any  gentler  one.  But  I  could  not  call  at  your  own 
house;  I  knew  no  other  where  to  meet  you.  This  was  the 
only  course  left  to  me, —  indeed  it  was.  I  made  myself  ac- 
quainted with  your  movements.  Do  not  blame  me,  th^i,  for 
prying  into  your  footsteps.  I  watched  for  you  all  last  night; 
you  did  not  come  out.  I  was  in  despair.  At  last  I  find  you. 
Do  not  be  so  terrified ;  I  will  not  even  touch  your  hand  if  j^ou 
do  not  wish  it." 

As  he  spoke,  however,  he  attempted  to  touch  it,  and  was 
repulsed  with  an  energy  that  rather  disconcerted  him.  The 
poor  girl  recoiled  from  him  into  the  farthest  corner  of  that 
prison  in  speechless  horror,  in  the  darkest  confusion  of  ideas. 
She  did  not  weep,  she  did  not  sob;  but  her  trembling  seemed 
to  shake  the  very  carriage.  The  man  continued  to  address, 
to  expostulate,  to  pray,  to  soothe.  His  manner  was  respect- 
ful; his  protestations  that  he  would  not  harm  her  for  the 
world  were  endless. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  461 

"Only  just. see  the  home  I  can  give  you, —  for  two  days,  for 
one  day;  only  just  hear  how  rich  I  can  make  you  and  your 
grandfather,  and  then,  if  you  wish  to  leave  me,  you  shall." 

More,  much  more,  to  this  effect,  did  he  continue  to  pour 
forth,  without  extracting  any  sound  from  Fanny  but  gasps  as 
for  breath,  and  now  and  then  a  low  murmur, — 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go!  My  grandfather,  my  blind  grand- 
father ! " 

And  finally  tears  came  to  her  relief,  and  she  sobbed  with  a 
passion  that  alarmed  and  perhaps  even  touched  her  compan- 
ion, cynical  and  icy  as  he  was.  Meanwhile  the  carriage 
seemed  to  fly.  Fast  as  two  horses  thorough-bred  and  almost 
at  full  speed  could  go,  they  were  Avhirled  along,  till  about  an 
hour,  or  even  less,  from  the  time  in  which  she  had  been  thus 
captured,  the  carriage  stopped. 

"Are  we  here  already?"  said  the  man,  putting  his  head 
out  of  the  window.  "Do  then  as  I  told  you.  Not  to  the  front 
door;  to  my  study." 

In  two  minutes  more  the  carriage  halted  again,  before  a 
building  which  looked  white  and  ghostlike  through  the  mist. 
The  driver  dismounted,  opened  with  a  latch-key  a  window- 
door,  entered  for  a  moment  to  light  the  candles  in  a  solitary 
room  from  a  fire  that  blazed  on  the  hearth,  reappeared,  and 
opened  the  carriage-door.  It  was  with  a  difficulty  for  which 
they  were  scarcely  prepared  that  they  were  enabled  to  get 
Fanny  from  the  carriage.  No  soft  words,  no  whispered  pray- 
ers could  draw  her  forth;  and  it  was  with  no  trifling  address, 
for  her  companion  sought  to  be  as  gentle  as  the  force  neces- 
sary to  employ  would  allow,  that  he  disengaged  her  hands 
from  the  window-frame,  the  lining,  the  cushions,  to  which 
they  clung,  and  at  last  bore  her  into  the  house.  The  driver 
closed  the  window  again  as  he  retreated,  and  they  were  alone. 
Fanny  then  cast  a  wild,  scarce  conscious  glance  over  the  apart- 
ment. It  was  small  and  simply  furnished.  Opposite  to  her 
was  an  old-fashioned  bureau, — one  of  those  quaint,  elaborate 
monuments  of  Dutch  ingenuity,  which  during  the  present 
century  the  audacious  spirit  of  curiosity-vendors  has  trans- 
planted from  their  native  receptacles,  to  contrast,  with  gro- 


462  NIGHT   AXD  MORXTNG. 

tesque  strangeness,  the  neat  handiwork  of  Gillow  and  Seddon. 
It  had  a  physiognomy  and  character  of  its  own,  —  this  fantas- 
tic foreigner, —  inlaid  with  mosaics,  depicting  landscapes  and 
animals ;  graceless  in  form  and  fashion,  but  still  picturesque, 
and  winning  admiration,  when  more  closely  observed,  from 
the  patient  defiance  of  all  rules  of  taste  which  had  formed  its 
cumbrous  parts  into  one  profusely  ornamented  and  eccentric 
whole.  It  was  the  more  noticeable  from  its  total  want  of 
harmony  with  the  other  appurtenances  of  the  room,  which  be- 
spoke the  tastes  of  the  plain  English  squire.  Prints  of  horses 
and  hunts,  fishing-rods  and  fowling-pieces,  carefully  sus- 
pended, decorated  the  walls.  Not,  however,  on  this  notable 
stranger  from  the  sluggish  land  rested  the  eye  of  Fanny. 
That,  in  her  hurried  survey,  was  arrested  only  by  a  portrait 
placed  over  the  bureau, —  the  portrait  of  a  female  in  the  bloom 
of  life;  a  face  so  fair,  a  brow  so  candid,  an  eye  so  pure,  a  lip 
so  rich  in  youth  and  joy,  that  as  her  look  lingered  on  the  feat- 
ures Fanny  felt  comforted,  felt  as  if  some  living  protectress 
were  there.  The  fire  burned  bright  and  merrily;  a  table, 
spread  as  for  dinner,  was  drawn  near  it.  To  any  other  eye 
but  Fanny's  the  place  would  have  seemed  a  picture  of  Eng- 
lish comfort.  At  last  her  looks  rested  on  her  companion. 
He  had  thrown  himself,  with  a  long  sigh,  partly  of  fatigue, 
partly  of  satisfaction,  on  one  of  the  chairs,  and  was  contem- 
plating her  as  she  thus  stood  and  gazed,  with  an  expression 
of  mingled  curiosity  and  admiration;  she  recognized  a^once 
her  first,  her  only  persecutor.  She  recoiled,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.     The  man  approached  her:  — 

"Do  not  hate  me,  Fanny,  —  do  not  turn  away.  Believe  me, 
though  I  have  acted  thus  violently,  here  all  violence  will 
cease.  I  love  you,  but  I  will  not  be  satisfied  till  you  love  me 
in  return.  I  am  not  young;  and  I  am  not  handsome;  but  I 
am  rich  and  great,  and  I  can  make  those  whom  I  love  happy, 
—  so  happy,  Fanny !  " 

But  Fanny  had  turned  away,  and  was  now  busily  employed 
in  trying  to  re-open  the  door  at  which  slie  had  entered.  Fail- 
ing in  this,  she  suddenly  darted  away,  opened  the  inner  door, 
and  rushed  into  the  passage  with  a  loud  cry.     Her  persecutor 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  463 

stifled  an  oath,  and  sprung  after  and  arrested  her.  He  now 
spoke  sternly,  and  with  a  smile  and  a  frown  at  once, — 

"This  is  folly!  Come  back,  or  you  will  repent  it!  I  have 
promised  you,  as  a  gentleman, —  as  a  nobleman,  if  you  know 
what  that  is,  —  to  respect  you;  but  neither  will  I  myself  be 
trifled  with  nor  insulted.     There  must  be  no  screams !  " 

His  look  and  his  voice  awed  Fanny  in  spite  of  her  bewilder- 
ment and  her  loathing,  and  she  suffered  herself  passively  to 
be  drawn  into  the  room.  He  closed  and  bolted  the  door.  She 
threw  herself  on  the  ground  in  one  corner,  and  moaned  low 
but  piteously.  He  looked  at  her  musingly  for  some  moments, 
as  he  stood  by  the  fire,  and  at  last  went  to  the  door,  opened 
it,  and  called  "  Harriet "  in  a  low  voice.  Presently  a  young 
woman  of  about  thirty  appeared,  neatly  but  plainly  dressed, 
and  of  a  countenance  that,  if  not  very  winning,  might  cer- 
tainly be  called  very  handsome.  He  drew  her  aside  for  a  few 
moments,  and  a  whispered  conference  was  exchanged.  He 
then  walked  gravely  up  to  Fanny. 

"My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "I  see  my  presence  is  too 
much  for  you  this  evening.  This  young  woman  will  attend 
you, — will  get  you  all  you  want.  She  can  tell  you,  too,  that 
I  am  not  the  terrible  sort  of  person  you  seem  to  suppose.  I 
shall  see  you  to-morrow."  So  saying,  he  turned  on  his  heel 
and  walked  out. 

Fanny  felt  something  like  liberty,  something  like  joy,  again. 
She  rose,  and  looked  so  pleadingly,  so  earnestly,  so  intently 
into  the  woman's  face,  that  Harriet  turned  away  her  bold 
eyes  abashed;  and  at  this  moment  Dykeman  himself  looked 
into  the  room. 

"  You  are  to  bring  us  in  dinner  here  yourself,  uncle ;  and 
then  go  to  my  lord  in  the  drawing-room." 

Dykeman  looked  pleased,  and  vanished.  Then  Harriet 
came  up  and  took  Fanny's  hand,  and  said  kindly, — 

"  Don't  be  frightened.  I  assure  ydh,  half  the  girls  in  Lon- 
don Avould  give  I  don't  know  what  to  be  in  your  place.  My 
lord  never  will  force  you  to  do  anything  you  don't  like, —  it 's 
not  his  way;  and  he's  *he  kindest  and  best  man, — and  so 
rich;  he  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  money!  " 


464  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

To  all  this  Fanny  made  but  one  answer;  she  threw  herself 
suddenly  upon  the  woman's  breast,  and  sobbed  out, — 

"My  grandfather  is  blind,  he  cannot  do  without  me;  he 
will  die,  —  die!  Have  you  nobody  you  love,  too?  Let  me 
go,  let  me  out!  What  can  they  want  with  me?  I  never  did 
harm  to  any  one." 

"And  no  one  will  harm  you, —  I  swear  it!"  said  Harriet, 
earnestly.  "  I  see  you  don't  know  my  lord.  But  here  's  the 
dinner;  come  and  take  a  bit  of  something,  and  a  glass  of 
wine." 

Fanny  could  not  touch  anything  except  a  glass  of  water, 
and  that  nearly  choked  her.  But  at  last,  as  she  recovered 
her  senses,  the  absence  of  her  tormentor,  the  presence  of  a 
woman,  the  solemn  assurances  of  Harriet  that  if  she  did  not 
like  to  stay  there,  after  a  day  or  two  she  should  go  back,  tran- 
quillized her  in  some  measure.  She  did  not  heed  the  artful 
and  lengthened  eulogiums  that  the  she-tempter  then  proceeded 
to  pour  forth  upon  the  virtues  and  the  love  and  the  generosity, 
and  above  all  the  money,  of  my  lord.  She  only  kept  repeat- 
ing to  herself,  "I  shall  go  back  in  a  day  or  two."  At  length, 
Harriet,  having  eaten  and  drunk  as  much  as  she  could  by  her 
single  self,  and  growing  wearied  with  efforts  from  which  so 
little  resulted,  proposed  to  Fanny  to  retire  to  rest.  She  opened 
a  door  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace,  and  lighted  her  up  a  wind- 
ing staircase  to  a  pretty  and  comfortable  chamber,  where  she 
offered  to  help  her  to  undress.  Fanny's  complete  innocence, 
and  her  utter  ignorance  of  the  precise  nature  of  the  danger 
that  awaited  her,  though  she  fancied  it  must  be  very  great 
and  very  awful,  prevented  her  quite  comprehending  all  that 
Harriet  meant  to  convey  by  her  solemn  assurances  that  she 
should  not  be  disturbed.  But  she  understood,  at  least,  that 
she  was  not  to  see  her  hateful  jailer  till  the  next  morning; 
and  when  Harriet,  wishing  her  "good  night,"  showed  her  a 
bolt  to  her  door,  she  waf  less  terrified  at  the  thought  of  being 
alone  in  that  strange  place.  She  listened  till  Harriet's  foot- 
steps had  died  awa}^,  and  then,  with  a  beating  heart,  tried  to 
open  the  door;  it  was  locked  from  without.  She  sighed  heav- 
ily.   Tlie  window?    Alas!  when  she  had  removed  the  shutter, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  465 

tliPi-e  was  another  one  barred  from  witliout,  which  precluded 
all  hope  there;  she  had  no  help  for  it  but  to  bolt  her  door, 
stand  forlorn  and  amazed  at  her  own  condition,  and,  at  last, 
falling  on  her  knees,  to  pray,  in  her  own  simple  fashion, 
which  since  her  recent  visits  to  the  schoolmistress  had  become 
more  intelligent  and  earnest,  to  Him  from  whom  no  bolts  and 
no  bars  can  exclude  the  voice  of  the  human  heart. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

In  te  omnis  (ionius  inclinata  recumbit.i  —  Virgil. 

Lord  Lilburne,  seated  before  a  tray  in  the  drawing'-room, 
was  finishing  his  own  solitary  dinner,  and  Dykeman  was 
standing  close  behind  him,  nervous  and  agitated.  The  con- 
fidence of  many  years  between  the  master  and  the  servant, 
the  peculiar  mind  of  Lilburne,  which  excluded  him  from  all 
friendship  with  his  own  equals,  had  established  between  the 
two  the  kind  of  intimacy  so  common  with  the  noble  and  the 
valet  of  the  old  French  rigime  ;  and  indeed  in  much  Lilburne 
more  resembled  the  men  of  that  day  and  land  than  he  did  the 
nobler  and  statelier  being  which  belongs  to  our  own.  But  to 
the  end  of  time,  whatever  is  at  once  vicious,  polished,  and 
intellectual  will  have  a  common  likeness. 

"  But,  my  lord, "  said  Dykeman,  "  just  reflect.  This  girl  is 
so  well  known  in  the  place,  she  will  be  sure  to  be  missed; 
nnd  if  any  violence  is  done  to  her,  it 's  a  capital  crime,  my 
lord, —  a  capital  crime.  I  know  they  can't  hang  a  great  lord 
like  you,  but  all  concerned  in  it  may  — " 

Lord  Lilburne  interrupted  the  speaker  by  —  "  Give  me  some 
wine  and  hold  your  tongue ! "  Then,  when  he  had  emptied 
his  glass,  he  drew  himself  nearer  to  the  fire,  warmed  his 
hands,  mused  a  moment,  and  turned  round  to  his  confidant, — 

1  "On  thee  the  whole  house  rests  confidingly." 
30 


466  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

"Dykeman,"  said  he,  "though  you're  an  ass  and  a  cow- 
ard, and  you  don't  deserve  that  I  should  be  so  condescending, 
I  will  relieve  your  fears  at  once.  I  know  the  law  better  than 
you  can,  for  my  whole  life  has  been  spent  in  doing  exactly  as 
I  please,  without  ever  putting  myself  in  the  power  of  Law, 
which  interferes  with  the  pleasures  of  other  men.  You  are 
right  in  saying  violence  would  be  a  capital  crime.  I^ow  the 
diiferenee  between  vice  and  crime  is  this:  Vice  is  what  par- 
sons write  sermons  against, —  Crime  is  what  we  make  laws 
against.  I  never  committed  a  crime  in  all  my  life, —  at  an 
age  between  fifty  and  sixty  I  am  not  going  to  begin.  Vices 
are  safe  things;  I  may  have  my  vices  like  other  men:  but 
crimes  are  dangerous  things,  illegal  things,  things  to  be  care- 
fully avoided.  Look  you"  (and  here  the  speaker,  fixing  his 
puzzled  listener  with  his  eye,  broke  into  a  grin  of  sublime 
mockery),  "let  me  suppose  you  to  be  the  World, —  that  cring- 
ing valet  of  valets,  the  World  !  I  should  say  to  you  this : 
'My  dear  World,  you  and  I  understand  each  other  well, —  we 
are  made  for  each  other,  —  I  never  come  in  your  way,  nor  you 
in  mine.  If  I  get  drunk  every  day  in  my  own  room,  that 's 
vice,  you  can't  touch  me ;  if  I  take  an  extra  glass  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  and  knock  down  the  watchman,  that's  a 
crime,  which,  if  I  am  rich,  costs  me  one  pound,  —  perhaps 
five  pounds,  —  if  I  am  poor,  sends  me  to  the  treadmill.  If  I 
break  the  hearts  of  five  hundred  old  fathers  by  buyifig  with 
gold  or  flattery  the  embraces  of  five  hundred  young  daugh- 
ters, that's  vice, —  your  servant,  Mr.  World!  If  one  terma- 
gant wench  scratches  my  face,  makes  a  noise,  and  goes 
brazen-faced  to  the  Old  Bailey  to  swear  to  her  shame,  why 
that's  crime,  and  my  friend,  Mr.  World,  pulls  a  hemp-rope 
out  of  his  pocket.'  Now,  do  you  understand?  Yes,  I  re- 
peat, "  he  added,  with  a  change  of  voice,  "  I  never  committed 
a  crime  in  my  life;  I  have  never  even  been  accused  of  one, 
—  never  had  an  action  of  crim.  con.,  of  seduction  against  me. 
I  know  how  to  manage  such  matters  better.  I  was  forced  to 
carry  off  this  girl,  because  I  had  no  other  means  of  courting 
her.  To  court  her  is  all  I  mean  to  do  now.  I  am  perfectly 
aware  that  an  action  for  violence,  as  you  call  it,  would  be  the 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  467 

more  disagreeable  becaiise  of  the  very  weakness  of  intellect 
which  the  girl  is  said  to  possess,  and  of  which  report  I  don't 
believe  a  word.  I  shall  most  certainly  avoid  every  the  re- 
motest appearance  that  could  be  so  construed.  It  is  for  that 
reason  that  no  one  in  the  house  shall  attend  the  girl  except 
yourself  and  your  niece.  Your  niece  I  can  depend  on,  I  know; 
I  have  been  kind  to  her;  I  have  got  her  a  good  husband;  I 
shall  get  her  husband  a  good  place;  I  shall  be  godfather  to 
her  first  child.  To  be  sure,  the  other  servants  will  know 
there  's  a  lady  in  the  house,  but  to  that  they  are  accustomed ; 
I  don't  set  up  for  a  Joseph.  They  need  know  no  more,  un- 
less you  choose  to  blab  it  out.  Well,  then,  supposing  that  at 
the  end  of  a  few  days,  more  or  less,  without  any  rudeness  on 
my  part,  a  young  woman,  after  seeing  a  few  jewels  and  fine 
dresses  and  a  pretty  house,  and  being  made  very  comfortable, 
and  being  convinced  that  her  grandfather  shall  be  taken  care 
of  without  her  slaving  herself  to  death,  chooses  of  her  own 
accord  to  live  with  me,  where 's  the  crime,  and  who  can 
interfere  with  it?" 

"Certainly,  my  lord,  that  alters  the  case,"  said  Dykeman, 
considerably  relieved.  "But  still,"  he  added  anxiously,  "if 
the  inquiry  is  made,  if  before  all  this  is  settled,  it  is  found 
out  where  she  is?" 

"  Why,  then  no  harm  will  be  done,  no  violence  will  be  com- 
mitted. Her  grandfather  —  drivelling  and  a  miser,  you  say 
—  can  be  appeased  by  a  little  money,  and  it  will  be  nobody's 
business,  and  no  case  can  be  made  of  it.  Tush,  man!  I  al- 
ways look  before  I  leap!  People  in  this  world  are  not  so 
charitable  as  you  suppose.  What  more  natural  than  that  a 
poor  and  pretty  girl  —  not  as  wise  as  Queen  Elizabeth  — 
should  be  tempted  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  rich  lover!  All  they 
can  say  of  the  lover  is  that  he  is  a  very  gay  man  or  a  very 
bad  man,  and  that 's  saying  nothing  new  of  me.  But  don't 
think  it  will  be  found  out.  Just  get  me  that  stool;  this  has 
been  a  very  troublesome  piece  of  business,  —  rather  tired  me. 
I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was.  Yes,  Dykeman,  something  which 
that  Frenchman  Vaudemont,  or  Vaut-rien,  or  whatever  his 
name  is,  said  to  me  once  has  a  certain  degree  of  truth.     I  felt 


468  NIGHT  AND    MORNING. 

it  in  the  last  fit  of  the  gout,  when  my  pretty  niece  was  smooth- 
ing my  pillows.  A  nurse,  as  we  grow  older,  may  be  of  use 
to  one.  I  wish  to  make  this  girl  like  me,  or  be  grateful  to 
me.  I  am  meditating  a  longer  and  more  serious  attachment 
than  usual, —  a  companion!  " 

"  A  companion,  my  lord,  in  that  poor  creature !  so  ignorant, 
so  uneducated ! " 

"So  much  the  better.  This  world  palls  upon  me,"  said 
Lilburne,  almost  gloomily.  "I  grow  sick  of  the  miserable 
quackeries,  of  the  piteous  conceits  that  men,  women,  and 
children  call  'knowledge.'  I  wish  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  na- 
ture before  I  die.  This  creature  interests  me,  and  that  is 
something  in  this  life.  Clear  those  things  away,  and  leave 
me." 

"  Ay ! "  muttered  Lilburne,  as  he  bent  over  the  fire  alone, 
"when  I  first  heard  that  that  girl  was  the  granddaughter  of 
Simon  Gawtrey,  and,  therefore,  the  child  of  the  man  whom  I 
am  to  thank  that  I  am  a  cripple,  I  felt  as  if  love  to  her  were 
a  part  of  that  hate  which  I  owe  to  him,  —  a  segment  in  the 
circle  of  my  vengeance.  But  notv,  poor  child!  I  forget  all 
this.  1  feel  for  her  not  passion,  but  what  I  never  felt  before, 
affection.  I  feel  that  if  I  had  such  a  child,  I  could  under- 
stand what  men  mean  when  they  talk  of  the  tenderness  of  a 
father.  I  have  not  one  impure  thought  for  that^irl, —  not 
one;  but  I  would  give  thousands  if  she  could  love  me. 
Strange !  strange !  in  all  this  I  do  not  recognize  myself !  " 

Lord  Lilburne  retired  to  rest  betimes  that  night;  he  slept 
sound;  rose  refreshed  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual;  and 
what  he  considered  a  fit  of  vapours  of  the  previous  night  was 
passed  away.  He  looked  with  eagerness  to  an  interview  with 
Fanny.  Proud  of  his  intellect,  pleased  in  any  of  those  sin- 
ister exercises  of  it  which  the  code  and  habits  of  his  life  so 
long  permitted  to  him,  he  regarded  the  conquest  of  his  fair 
adversary  with  the  interest  of  a  scientific  game.  Harriet  went 
to  Fanny's  room  to  prepare  her  to  receive  her  host;  and  Lord 
Lilburne  now  resolved  to  make  his  own  visit  the  less  unwel- 
come by  reserving  for  his  especial  gift  some  showy,  if  not 
valuable,  trinkets,   which  for  similar   purposes  never  failed 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  469 

the  depositories  of  the  villa  he  had  purchased  for  his  pleas- 
ures. He  recollected  that  these  gewgaws  were  placed  iu  the 
bureau  in  the  study, —  in  which,  as  having  a  lock  of  foreign 
and  intricate  workmanship,  he  usually  kept  whatever  might 
tempt  cupidity  in  those  frequent  absences  when  the  house  was 
left  guarded  but  by  two  women  servants.  Finding  that 
Fanny  had  not  yet  quitted  her  own  chamber,  while  Harriet 
went  up  to  attend  and  reason  with  her,  he  himself  limped  into 
the  study  below,  unlocked  the  bureau,  and  was  searching  in 
the  drawers,  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Fanny  above,  raised 
a  little  as  if  in  remonstrance  or  entreaty;  and  he  paused  to 
listen.  He  could  not,  however,  distinguish  what  was  said; 
and  in  the  meanwhile,  without  attending  much  to  what  he 
was  about,  his  hands  were  still  employed  in  opening  and  shut- 
ting the  drawers,  passing  through  the  pigeon-holes,  and  feel- 
ing for  a  topaz  brooch,  which  he  thought  could  not  fail  of 
pleasing  the  unsophisticated  eyes  of  Fanny.  One  of  the  re- 
cesses was  deeper  than  the  rest;  he  fancied  the  brooch  was 
there ;  he  stretched  his  hand  into  the  recess ;  and  as  the  room 
was  partially  darkened  by  the  lower  shutters  from  without, 
which  were  still  unclosed  to  prevent  any  attempted  escape  of 
his  captive,  he  had  only  the  sense  of  touch  to  depend  on. 
Xot  finding  the  brooch,  he  stretched  on  till  he  came  to  the 
extremity  of  the  recess,  and  was  suddenly  sensible  of  a  sharp 
pain;  the  flesh  seemed  caught  as  in  a  trap.  He  drew  back 
his  finger  with  sudden  force  and  a  half-suppressed  exclama- 
tion, and  he  perceived  the  bottom  or  floor  of  the  pigeon-hole 
recede,  as  if  sliding  back.  His  curiosity  was  aroused;  he 
again  felt  warily  and  cautiously,  and  discovered  a  very  slight 
inequality  and  roughness  at  the  extremity  of  the  recess.  He 
was  aware  instantly  that  there  was  some  secret  spring;  he 
pressed  with  some  force  on  the  spot,  and  he  felt  the  board 
give  way ;  he  pushed  it  back  towards  him,  and  it  slid  suddenly 
with  a  whirring  noise,  and  left  a  cavity  below  exposed  to  his 
sight.  He  peered  in,  and  drew  forth  a  paper;  he  opened  it 
at  first  carelessly,  for  he  was  still  trying  to  listen  to  Fanny. 
His  eye  ran  rapidly  over  a  few  preliminary  lines  till  it  rested 
on  what  follows :  — 


470  KIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

Marriage.     The  year  18  — 

No.  83,  page  21. 

Philip  Beaufort,  of  this  parish  of  A ,  and  Catherine  Morton,  of 

the  parish  of  St.  Botolph,  Aldgate,  London,  were  married  in  this  church 

by  banns,  this  12th  day  of  November,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight 

hundred  and ,^  by  me, 

Caleb  Prick,   Vicar. 


This  marriage  was  solemnized  between  us, 
In  the  presence  of 


Philip  Beaufort. 
Catherine  Morton. 


David  Apreece. 
William  Smith. 


The  above  is  a  true  copy  taken  from  the  registry  of  marriages,   in 

A parish,  this  19th  day  of  March,  18  —,  by  me, 

Morgan  Jones,  Curate  of  C . 

Lord  Lilburne  again  cast  his  eye  over  the  lines  prefixed  to 
this  startling  document,  which,  being  those  written  at  Caleb's 
desire,  by  Mr.  Jones  to  Philip  Beaufort,  we  need  not  here 
transcribe  to  the  reader. ^  At  that  instant  Harriet  descended 
the  stairs,  and  came  into  the  room;  she  crept  up  on  tiptoe  to 
Lilburne,  and  whispered, — 

"  She  is  coming  down,  I  think ;  she  does  not  know  you  are 
here."  -• 

"Very  well,— go!"  said  Lord  Lilburne.  And  scarce  had 
Harriet  left  the  room,  when  a  carriage  drove  furiously  to  the 
door,  and  Robert  Beaufort  rushed  into  the  study. 

1  This  is  according  to  the  form  customary  at  the  date  at  which  the  copy 
was  made.     There  has  since  been  an  alteration. 

2  See  page  14. 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  471 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

Gone,  and  none  know  it. 

How  now  ■?  —  What  news,  what  hopes  and  steps  discovered  ! 

Beaumont  and  Flktciiek  :   The  Pilgrim. 

When  Philip  arrived  at  his  lodgings  in  town  it  was  very 
late,  but  he  still  found  Liancourt  waiting  the  chance  of  his 
arrival.  The  Frenchman  was  full  of  his  own  schemes  and 
projects.  He  was  a  man  of  high  repute  and  connections; 
negotiations  for  his  recall  to  Paris  had  been  entered  into;  he 
wa°s  divided  between  a  Quixotic  loyalty  and  a  rational  pru- 
dence; he  brought  his  doubts  to  Vaudemont.  Occupied  as  he 
was  with  thoughts  of  so  important  and  personal  a  nature, 
Philip  could  yet  listen  patiently  to  his  friend,  and  weigh  with 
him  the  pros  and  cons  ;  and  after  having  mutually  agreed  that 
loyalty  and  prudence  would  both  be  best  consulted  by  waiting 
a  little,  to  see  if  the  nation,  as  the  Carlists  yet  fondly  trusted, 
would  soon,  after  its  first  fever,  offer  once  more  the  throne 
and  the  purple  to  the  descendant  of  Saint  Louis,  Liancourt,  as 
he  lighted  his  cigar  to  walk  home,  said:  "A  thousand  thanks 
to  you,  my  dear  friend;  and  how  have  you  enjoyed  yoiirself 
in  your  visit?  I  am  not  surprised  or  jealous  that  Lilburne 
did  not  invite  me,  as  I  do  not  play  at  cards,  and  as  I  have  said 
some  sharp  things  to  him." 

"  I  fancy  I  shall  have  the  same  disqualifications  for  another 
invitation,"  said  Vaudemont,  with  a  severe  smile.  "I  may 
have  much  to  disclose  to  you  in  a  few  days.  At  present  my 
news  is  still  unripe.  And  have  you  seen  anything  of^  Lil- 
burne?    He  left  us  some  days  since.     Is  he  in  London?  " 

"Yes;  I  was  riding  with  our  friend  Henri,  who  wished  to 
try  a  new  horse  off  the  stones,  a  little  way  into  the  country 

yesterday.      We   went   through   and    H .      Pretty 

places,  those.     Do  you  know  them?" 


472  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

*'Yes;  I  knowH ." 

"And  just  at  dusk,  as  we  were  spurring  back  to  town,  whom 
should  I  see  walking  on  the  path  of  the  high-road  but  Lord 
Lilburne  himself!  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  I 
stopped,  and  after  asking  him  about  you,  I  could  not  help 
expressing  my  surprise  to  see  him  on  foot  at  such  a  place. 
You  know  the  man's  sneer.  '  A  Frenchman  so  gallant  as 
Monsieur  de  Liancourt, '  said  he,  '  need  not  be  surprised  at 
much  greater  miracles;  the  iron  moves  to  the  magnet.  I  have 
a  little  adventure  here ;  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  to  ride  on. ' 
Of  course  I  wished  him  good  day;  and  a  little  farther  up  the 
road  I  saw  a  dark  plain  chariot,  no  coronet,  no  arms,  no  foot- 
man, —  only  the  man  on  the  box ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  horses 
assured  me  it  must  belong  to  Lilburne.  Can  you  conceive 
such  absurdity  in  a  man  of  that  age,  —  and  a  very  clever  fel- 
low too?  Yet  how  is  it  that  one  does  not  ridicule  it  in  Lil- 
burne, as  one  would  in  another  man  between  fifty  and  sixty?" 

''Because  one  does  not  ridicule  —  one  loathes  —  him." 

"No;  that's  not  it.  The  fact  is  that  one  can't  fancy  Lil- 
burne old.  His  manner  is  young,  his  eye  is  young.  I  never 
saw  any  one  with  so  much  vitality.  '  The  bad  heart  and  the 
good  digestion,'  — the  twin  secrets  for  wearing  well,  eh?" 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him,  —  not  near  H ?  " 

"Yes;  close  by.  Why?  Have  you  any  adventure  there 
too?    Nay,  forgive  me;  it  was  but  a  jest.     Good  night!  " 

Vaudemont  fell  into  an  uneasy  rever3\  He  could  not  divine 
exactly  why  he  should  be  alarmed,  but  he  was  alarmed,  at  Lil- 
burne being  in  the  neighbourhood  of  H .     It  was  the  foot 

of  the  profane  violating  the  sanctuary.  An  undefined  thrill 
shot  through  him,  as  his  mind  coupled  together  the  associa- 
tions of  Lilburne  and  Fanny;  but  there  was  no  ground  for 
forebodings.  Fanny  did  not  stir  out  alone.  An  adventure, 
too  —  pooh !  Lord  Lilburne  must  be  awaiting  a  willing  and 
voluntary  appointment,  most  probably  from  some  one  of  the 
fair  but  decorous  frailties  in  London.  Lord  Lilburne's  more 
recent  conquests  were  said  to  be  among  those  of  his  own  rank ; 
suburbs  are  useful  for  such  assignations.  Any  other  thought 
was  too  horrible  to  be  contemplated.    He  glanced  to  the  clock ; 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  473 

it  was  three  in  the  morning.     He  would  go  to  H early, 

even  before  he  sought  out  Mr.  William  Smith.  With  that 
resolution,  and  even  his  hardy  frame  worn  out  by  the  excite- 
ment of  the  day,  he  threw  himself  on  his  bed  and  fell  asleep. 

He  did  not  wake  till  near  nine,  and  had  just  dressed,  and 
hurried  over  his  abstemious  breakfast,  when  the  servant  of 
the  house  came  to  tell  him  that  an  old  woman,  apparently  in 
great  agitation,  wished  to  see  him.  His  head  was  still  full  of 
Avitnesses  and  lawsuits ;  and  he  was  vaguely  expecting  some 
visitor  connected  with  his  primary  objects,  when  Sarah  broke 
into  the  room.  She  cast  a  hurried,  suspicious  look  round  her, 
and  then,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  to  him,  "Oh!"  she 
cried,  "if  you  have  taken  that  poor  young  thing  away,  God 
forgive  you !  Let  her  come  back  again.  It  shall  be  all  hushed 
up.     Don't  ruin  her!  don't,  that 's  a  dear  good  gentleman!  " 

"Speak  plainly,  woman, — what  do  you  mean?"  cried 
Philip,  turning  pale. 

A  very  few  words  sufficed  for  an  explanation :  Fanny's  dis- 
appearance the  previous  night;  the  alarm  of  Sarah  at  her  non- 
return; the  apathy  of  old  Simon,  who  did  not  comprehend 
what  had  happened,  and  quietly  went  to  bed;  the  search 
Sarah  had  made  during  half  the  night;  the  intelligence  she 
had  picked  up  that  the  policeman,  going  his  rounds,  had  heard 
a  female  shriek  near  the  school,  but  that  all  he  could  perceive 
through  the  mist  was  a  carriage  driving  rapidly  past  him; 
Sarah's  suspicions  of  Vaudemont  confirmed  in  the  morning, 
when,  entering  Fanny's  room,  she  perceived  the  poor  girl's 
unfinished  letter  with  his  own;  the  clew  to  his  address  that 
the  letter  gave  her,  —  all  this,  ere  she  well  understood  what 
she  herself  was  talking  about,  Vaudemont's  alarm  seized,  and 
the  reflection  of  a  moment  construed.  The  carriage,  Lilburne 
seen  lurking  in  the  neighbourhood  the  previous  day,  the 
former  attempt, — all  flashed  on  him  with  an  intolerable 
glare.  While  Sarah  was  yet  speaking,  he  rushed  from  the 
house,  he  flew  to  Lord  Lilburne's  in  Park  Lane,  he  composed 
his  manner,  he  inquired  calmly.     His  lordship  had  slept  from 

home;  he  was,  they  believed,  at  Fernside.     Fernside!  H 

was  on  the  direct  way  to  that  villa.     Scarcely  ten  minutes  had 


474  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

elapsed  since  he  heard  the  story  ere  he  was  on  the  road,  with 
such  speed  as  the  promise  of  a  guinea  a  mile  could  extract 
from  the  spurs  of  a  young  postboy  applied  to  the  flanks  of 
London  posthorses. 


CHAPTEK   XV. 

Ex  humili  magna  ad  fastigia  rerum 
Extollit.i  — Juvenal. 

When  Harriet  had  quitted  Fannj^  the  waiting-woman, 
craftily  wishing  to  lure  her  into  Lilburne's  presence,  had 
told  her  that  the  room  below  was  empty;  and  the  captive's 
mind  naturally  and  instantly  seized  on  the  thought  of  escape. 
After  a  brief  breathing-pause,  she  crept  noiselessly  down  the 
stairs,  and  gently  opened  the  door;  and  at  the  very  instant 
she  did  so,  Robert  Beaufort  entered  from  the  other  door.  She 
drew  back  in  terror,  when  what  was  her  astonishment  in  hear- 
ing a  name  uttered  that  spell-bound  her,  —  the  last  name  she 
could  have  expected  to  hear;  for  Lilburne,  the  instant  he  saw 
Beaufort  —  pale,  haggard,  agitated  —  rush  into  the  room,  and 
bang  the  door  after  him,  could  only  suppose  that  something 
of  extraordinary  moment  had  occurred  with  regard  to  the 
dreaded  guest,  and  cried:  "You  come  about  Vaudemont! 
Something  has  happened  about  Vaudemont!  about  Philip! 
What  is  it?     Calm  yourself." 

Fanny,  as  the  name  was  thus  abruptly  uttered,  actually 
thrust  her  face  through  the  door;  but  she  again  drew  back, 
and,  all  her  senses  preternaturally  quickened  at  that  name, 
while  she  held  the  door  almost  closed,  listened  with  her  whole 
soul  in  her  ears. 

The  faces  of  both  the  men  were  turned  from  her,  and  her 
partial  entry  had  not  been  perceived. 

"Yes,"  said   Robert   Beaufort,    leaning  his  weight,    as   if 

^  "  Fortune  raises  men  from  low  estate  to  the  very  summit  of  prosperity." 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  475 

ready  to  sink  to  the  ground,  upon  Lilburne's  shoulder,  — 
"yes;  Vaudemont,  or  Philip,  for  they  are  one, — yes,  it  is 
about  that  man  I  have  come  to  consult  you.  Arthur  has 
arrived." 

"Well?" 

"And  Arthur  has  seen  the  wretch  who  visited  us,  and  i-he 
rascal's  manner  has  so  imposed  on  him,  so  convinced  him  that 
Philip  is  the  heir  to  all  our  property,  that  he  has  come  over 
—  ill,  ill  — I  fear"  (added  Beaufort,  in  a  hollow  voice), 
"  dying,  to  —  to  —  " 

"To  guard  against  their  machinations?" 

"  No,  no,  no !  to  say  that  if  such  be  the  case,  neither  honour 
nor  conscience  will  allow  us  to  resist  his  rights.  He  is  so 
obstinate  in  this  matter,  his  nerves  so  ill  bear  reasoning  and 
contradiction,  that  I  know  not  what  to  do  —  " 

"Take  breath,  — go  on." 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  this  man  found  out  Arthur  almost  as 
soon  as  my  son  arrived  at  Paris ;  that  he  has  persuaded  Arthur 
that  he  has  it  in  his  power  to  prove  the  marriage;  that  he  pre- 
tended to  be  very  impatient  for  a  decision;  that  Arthur,  in 
order  to  gain  time  to  see  me,  affected  irresolution,  took  him 
to  Boulogne,  for  the  rascal  does  not  dare  to  return  to  England, 
left  him  there;  and  now  comes  back  my  own  son,  as  my  worst 
enemy,  to  conspire  against  me  for  my  property !  I  could  not 
have  kept  my  temper  if  I  had  stayed.  But  that 's  not  all,  — 
that's  not  the  worst;  Vaudemont  left  me  suddenly  in  the 
morning  on  the  receipt  of  a  letter.  In  taking  leave  of  Camilla 
he  let  fall  hints  which  fill  me  with  fear.    Well,  I  inquired  his 

movements  as  I  came  along;  he  had  stopped  at  D ,  had 

been  closeted  for  above  an  hour  with  a  man  whose  name  the 
landlord  of  the  inn  knew,  for  it  was  on  his  carpet-bag,  —  the 
name  was  Barlow.  You  remember  the  advertisements !  Good 
heavens!  what  is  to  be  done?  I  would  not  do  anything  un- 
handsome or  dishonest.  But  there  never  was  a  marriage.  I 
never  will  believe  there  was  a  marriage,  — never! " 

"There  was  a  marriage,  Robert  Beaufort,"  said  Lord  Lil- 
burne,  almost  enjoying  the  torture  he  was  about  to  inflict; 
"  and  I  hold  here  a  paper  that  Philip  Vaudemont  —  for  so  we 


476  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

will  yet  call  him  —  would  give  his  right  hand  to  clutch  for  a 
moment.  I  have  but  just  found  it  in  a  secret  cavity  in  that 
bureau.  Kobert,  on  this  paper  may  depend  the  fate,  the  for- 
tune, the  prosperity,  the  greatness  of  Philip  Vaudemont,  — or 
his  poverty,  his  exile,  his  ruin.     See!  " 

Robert  Beaufort  glanced  over  the  paper  held  out  to  him, 
dropped  it  on  the  floor,  and  staggered  to  a  seat.  Lilburne 
coolly  replaced  the  document  in  the  bureau,  and  limping  to 
his  brother-in-law,  said  with  a  smile,  — 

"  But  the  paper  is  in  my  possession.  I  will  not  destroy  it. 
No;  I  have  no  right  to  destroy  it.  Besides,  it  would  be  a 
crime;  but  if  I  give  it  to  you,  you  can  do  with  it  as  you 
please." 

"  0  Lilburne,  spare  me,  spare  me !  I  meant  to  be  an  honest 
man      I  —  I  —  "     And  Robert  Beaufort  sobbed. 

Lilburne  looked  at  him  in  scornful  surprise. 

"  Do  not  fear  that  /  shall  ever  think  worse  of  you;  and  who 
else  will  know  it?  Do  not  fear  ?n-e.  No;  I,  too,  have  reasons 
to  hate  and  to  fear  this  Philip  Vaudemont,  —  for  Vaudemont 
shall  be  his  name,  and  not  Beaufort,  in  spite  of  fifty  such 
scraps  of  paper !  He  has  known  a  man,  —  my  worst  foe ;  he 
has  secrets  of  mine,  of  my  past,  perhaps  of  my  present:  but 
I  laugh  at  his  knowledge  while  he  is  a  wandering  adventurer, 
—  I  should  tremble  at  that  knowledge  if  he  could  thunder  it 
out  to  the  world  as  Philip  Beaufort  of  Beaufort  Court!  There, 
I  am  candid  with  you.  Now  hear  my  plan.  Prove  to  Arthur 
that  his  visitor  is  a  convicted  felon  by  sending  the  officers  of 
justice  after  him  instantly,  — off  with  him  again  to  the  Settle- 
ments; defy  a  single  witness;  entrap  Vaudemont  back  to 
France,  and  prove  him  (I  think  I  will  prove  him  such  —  T 
think  so  —  with  a  little  money  and  a  little  pains)  —  prove  him 
the  accomplice  of  William  Gawtrey,  a  coiner  and  a  murderer! 
Pshaw !  take  yon  paper.  Do  with  it  as  you  will :  keep  it, 
give  it  to  Arthur,  let  Philip  Vaudemont  have  it,  and  Philip 
Vaudemont  will  be  rich  and  great,  the  happiest  man  between 
earth  and  paradise!  on  the  other  hand,  come  and  tell  me  that 
you  have  lost  it  or  that  I  never  gave  you  such  a  paper  or  that 
no  such  paper  ever  existed,  and  Philip  Vaudemont  may  live  a 


NIGHT   AND  MOPxNING.  477 

pauper,  and  die,  perhaps,  a  slave  at  the  galleys!     Lose  it,  I 
say,  — lose  it,  — and  advise  with  me  upon  the  rest." 

Horror-struck,  bewildered,  the  weak  man  gazed  upon  the 
calm  face  of  the  Master-villain,  as  the  scholar  of  the  old 
fables  might  have  gazed  on  the  fiend  who  put  before  him 
worldly  prosperity  here  and  the  loss  of  his  soul  hereafter. 
He  had  never  hitherto  regarded  Lilburne  in  his  true  light. 
He  was  appalled  by  the  black  heart  that  lay  bare  before  him. 

"I  can't  destroy  it, — I  can't,"  he  faltered  out;  "and  if  I 
did  out  of  love  for  Arthur, — don't  talk  of  galleys,  of  ven- 
geance —  I  —  I  —  " 

"  The  arrears  of  the  rents  you  have  enjoyed  will  send  you 
to  jail  for  your  life.     iS!"o,  no;  do7i't  destroy  the  paper." 

Beaufort  rose  with  a  desperate  effort;  he  moved  to  the 
bureau.  Fanny's  heart  was  on  her  lips.  Of  this  long  con- 
ference she  had  understood  only  the  one  broad  point  on  which 
Lilburne  had  insisted  with  an  emphasis  that  could  have  en- 
lightened an  infant,  —  and  he  looked  on  Beaufort  as  an  infant 
then,  — On  that  paper  rested  Philip  Va ted emont's  fate,  — hap- 
piness if  saved,  ruin  if  destroijed  ;  Philip,  her  Philip/  And 
Philip  himself  had  said  to  her  once  — when  had  she  ever  for- 
gotten his  words?  and  now  how  those  words  flashed  across 
her,  —  Philip  himself  had  said  to  her  once,  "  Upon  a  scrap  of 
paper,  if  I  could  but  find  it,  may  depend  my  whole  fortune, 
my  whole  happiness,  all  that  I  care  for  in  life."  Kobert 
Beaufort  moved  to  the  bureau,  he  seized  the  document,  he 
looked  over  it  again,  hurriedly,  and  ere  Lilburne,  who  by  no 
means  wished  to  have  it  destroyed  in  his  own  presence,  was 
aware  of  his  intention,  he  hastened  with  tottering  steps  to  the 
hearth,  averted  his  eyes,  and  cast  it  on  the  fire.  At  that 
instant  something  white  —  he  scarce  knew  what,  it  seemed  to 
him  as  a  spirit,  as  a  ghost  —  darted  by  him,  and  snatched  the 
paper,  as  yet  uninjured,  from  the  embers !  There  was  a  pause 
for  the  hundredth  part  of  a  moment.  A  gurgling  sound  of 
astonishment  and  horror  from  Beaufort,  an  exclamation  from 
Lilburne,  a  laugh  from  Fanny,  as,  her  eyes  flashing  light, 
with  a  proud  dilation  of  stature,  with  the  paper  clasped 
tightly  to  her  bosom,  she  turned  her  looks  of  triumph  from 


478  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

one  to  the  other.  The  two  men  were  both  too  amazed,  at  the 
instant,  for  rapid  measures.  But  Lilburue,  recovering  him- 
self first,  hastened  to  her;  she  eluded  his  grasp,  she  made 
towards  the  door  to  the  passage;  when  Lilburne,  seriously 
alarmed,  seized  her  arm,  — 

"Foolish  child!  give  me  that  paper!  " 

"Never  but  with  my  life!  "  And  Fanny's  cry  for  help  rang 
through  the  house. 

"  Then  —  "  the  speech  died  on  his  lips,  for  at  that  instant  a 
rapid  stride  was  heard  without,  a  momentary  scuffle,  voices 
in  altercation;  the  door  gave  way  as  if  a  battering  ram  had 
forced  it;  not  so  much  thrown  forward  as  actually  hurled  into 
the  room,  the  body  of  Dykeman  fell  heavily,  like  a  dead 
man's,  at  the  very  feet  of  Lord  Lilburne  —  and  Philip  Vaude- 
mont  stood  in  the  doorway ! 

The  grasp  of  Lilburne  on  Fanny's  arm  relaxed,  and  the 
girl,  with  one  bound,  sprung  to  Philip's  breast.  "Here, 
here ! "  she  cried,  "  take  it,  take  it ! "  and  she  thrust  the 
paper  into  his  hand.  "Don't  let  them  have  it,  read  it, 
see  it, —  never  mind  me/"  But  Philip,  though  his  hand 
unconsciously  closed  on  ^e  precious  document,  did  mind 
Fanny;  and  in  that  moment  her  cause  was  the  only  one  in 
the  world  to  him. 

"  Foul  villain ! "  he  said,  as  he  strode  to  Lilburne,  while 
Fanny  still  clung  to  his  breast,  "  speak !  speak !  —  is  —  she  — 
is  she?  —  man,  man,  speak! — you  know  what  I  would  say! 
She  is  the  child  of  your  own  daughter,  the  grandchild  of  that 
Mary  whom  you  dishonoured,  the  child  of  the  woman  whom 
William  Gawtrey  saved  from  pollution!  Before  he  died, 
Gawtrey  commended  her  to  my  care !  0  God  of  Heaven !  — 
speak !  —  I  am  not  too  late !  " 

The  manner,  the  words,  the  face  of  Philip  left  Lilburne 
terror-stricken  with  conviction.  But  the  man's  crafty  ability, 
debased  as  it  was,  triumphed  even  over  remorse  for  the  dread 
guilt  meditated,  — over  gratitude  for  the  dread  guilt  spared. 
He  glanced  at  Beaufort;  at  Dykeman,  who  now,  slowly  recov- 
ering, gazed  at  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  starting  from  their 
sockets;  and  lastly  fixed  his  look  on  Philip  himself.     There 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  479 

were  three  witnesses,  —  presence  of  mind  was  his  great 
attribute. 

"And  if,  Monsieur  de  Vaudemont,  I  knew,  or,  at  least,  had 
the  tirmest  persuasion  that  Fanny  was  my  grandchild,  what 
then?  Why  else  should  she  be  here?  Pooh,  sir!  I  am  an 
old  man." 

Philip  recoiled  a  step  in  wonder;  his  plain  sense  was  baffled 
by  the  calm  lie.  He  looked  down  at  Fanny,  who,  compre- 
hending nothing  of  what  was  spoken,  for  all  her  faculties, 
even  her  very  sense  of  sight  and  hearing,  were  absorbed  in 
her  impatient  anxiety  for  him,  cried  out,  — 

"No  harm  has  come  to  Fanny, — none;  only  frightened. 
Read!  read!  Save  that  paper!  You  know  what  you  once 
said  about  a  mere  scrap  of  paper !     Come  away !  come !  " 

He  did  now  cast  his  eyes  on  the  paper  he  held.  That  was 
an  awful  moment  for  Fvobert  Beaufort, — even  for  Lilburne! 
To  snatch  the  fatal  document  from  that  gripe!  They  would 
as  soon  have  snatched  it  from  a  tiger!  He  lifted  his  eyes; 
they  rested  on  his  mother's  picture!  Her  lips  smiled  on  him! 
He  turned  to  Beaufort  in  a  state  of  emotion  too  exulting,  too 
blest  for  vulgar  vengeance,  for  vulgar  triumph,  —  almost  for 
words. 

"Look  yonder,  Eobert  Beaufort,  —  look ! "  and  he  pointed 
to  the  picture.  "Her  name  is  spotless!  I  stand  again  be- 
neath a  roof  that  was  my  father's, —the  Heir  of  Beaufort! 
We  shall  meet  before  the  justice  of  our  country.  For  you. 
Lord  Lilburne,  I  will  believe  you;  it  is  too  horrible  to  doubt 
even  your  intentions.  If  wrong  had  chanced  to  her,  I  would 
have  rent  you  where  you  stand,  limb  from  limb.  And  thank 
fier"  —  for  Lilburne  recovered  at  this  language  the  daring  of 
his  youth  before  calculation,  indolence,  and  excess  had  dulled 
the  edge  of  his  nerves;  and  unawed  by  the  height  and  man- 
hood and  strength  of  his  menacer,  stalked  haughtily  up  to 
him  —  "and  thank  your  relationship  to  her,"  said  Philip, 
sinking  his  voice  into  a  whisper,  "  that  I  do  not  brand  you  as 
a  pilferer  and  a  cheat!  Hush,  knave!  hush,  pupil  of  George 
Gawtrey!  there  are  no  duels  for  me  but  with  men  of  honour!  " 

Lilburne  noiv  turned  white,  and  the  big  word  stuck  in  his 


480  NIGHT  AND  MORNING, 

throat.      In   another   instant   Fanny  and  her   guardian  had 
quitted  the  house. 

"Dykeman,"  said  Lord  Lilburne  after  a  long  silence,  "I 
shall  ask  you  another  time  how  you  came  to  admit  that  imper- 
tinent person.  At  present,  go  and  order  breakfast  for  Mr. 
Beaufort." 

As  soon  as  Dykeman,  more  astounded,  perhaps,  by  his 
lord's  coolness  than  even  by  the  preceding  circumstances,  had 
left  the  study,  Lilburne  came  up  to  Beaufort, — who  seemed 
absolutely  stricken  as  if  by  palsy,  —  and  touching  him  impa- 
tiently and  rudely,  said,  — 

"  'S death,  man!  rouse  yourself!  There  is  not  a  moment  to 
be  lost!  I  have  already  decided  on  what  you  are  to  do.  This 
paper  is  not  worth  a  rush,  unless  the  curate  who  examined  it 
will  depose  to  that  fact.  He  w  a  curate,  —  a  Welsh  curate; 
you  are  yet  Mr.  Beaufort,  a  rich  and  a  great  man.  The  curate, 
properly  managed,  may  depose  to  the  contrary;  and  then  we 
will  indict  them  all  for  forgery  and  conspiracy.  At  the  worst, 
you  can,  no  doubt,  get  the  parson  to  forget  all  about  it,  —  to 

stay  away.     His  address  was  on  the  certificate,  —  C .     Go 

yourself  into  Wales  without  an  instant's  delay.  Then,  hav- 
ing arranged  with  Mr.  Jones,  hurry  back,  cross  to  Boulogne, 
and  buy  this  convict  and  his  witness,  — yes,  buy  them!  That, 
now,  is  the  only  thing.  Quick!  quick!  quick!  Zounds,  man! 
if  it  were  m?/  affair,  my  estate,  I  would  not  care  a  pin  for  that 
fragment  of  paper;  I  should  rather  rejoice  at  it.  I  see  how  it 
could  be  turned  against  them!     Go!  " 

"No,  no;  I  am  not  equal  to  it!  Will  you  manage  it,  —will 
yo%i?     Half  my  estate!  all!     Take  it :  but  save  —  " 

"Tut!"  interrupted  Lord  Lilburne,  in  great  disdain.  "I 
am  as  rich  as  I  want  to  be.  Money  does  not  bribe  me.  I 
manage  this!  II  Lord  Lilburne.  I!  Why,  if  found  out, 
it  is  subornation  of  witnesses.  It  is  exposure,  it  is  dishon- 
our, it  is  ruin!  What  then?  You  should  take  the  risk, — 
for  you  must  meet  ruin,  if  you  do  not.  /  cannot.  I  have 
nothing  to  gain!" 

"I  dare  not!  I  dare  not!"  murmured  Beaufort,  quite 
spirit-broken.      "Subornation,   dishonour,    exposure!   and   I, 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  481 

so  respectable,  —  my  character !  —  and  my  son  against  me, 
too!  —  my  son,  in  whom  I  lived  again!  No,  no;  let  them 
take  all!  Let  them  take  it!  Ha,  ha!  let  them  take  it!  Good 
day  to  you." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I  shall  consult  Mr.  Blackwell,  and  I  '11  let  you  know." 

And  Beaufort  walked  tremulously  back  to  his  carriage. 

"■  Go  to  his  lawyer !  "  growled  Lilburne.  "  Yes,  if  his  lawtjer 
can  help  him  to  defraud  men  lawfully,  he  '11  defraud  them  fast 
enough.  T/ta^  will  be  the  respectable  way  of  doing  it!  Um! 
This  may  be  an  ugly  business  for  me  —  the  paper  found  here, 
—  if  the  girl  can  depose  to  what  she  heard,  and  she  must  have 
heard  something.  No,  I  think  the  laws  of  real  property  will 
hardly  allow  her  evidence ;  and  if  they  do  —  Um !  My  grand- 
daughter, —  is  it  possible !  And  Gawtrey  rescued  her  mother, 
my  child,  from  her  own  mother's  vices!  I  thought  my  liking 
to  that  girl  different  from  any  other  I  have  ever  felt :  it  was 
pure, — it  was!  It  i«as  pity, — affection.  And  I  must  never 
see  her  again, — must  forget  the  whole  thing!  And  I  am 
growing  old;  and  I  am  childless,  and  alone!"  He  paused, 
almost  with  a  groan;  and  then  the  expression  of  his  face 
changing  to  rage,  he  cried  out:  "The  man  threatened  me, 
and  I  was  a  coward !  What  to  do?  Nothing!  The  defensive 
is  my  line.  I  shall  play  no  more.  I  attack  no  one.  Who 
will  accuse  Lord  Lilburne?  Still,  Kobert  is  a  fool.  I  must 
not  leave  him  to  himself.  Ho,  there!  Dykeman,  the  car- 
riage!    I  shall  go  to  London." 

Fortunate,  no  doubt,  it  was  for  Philip  that  INIr.  Beaufort 
was  not  Lord  Lilburne.  For  all  history  teaches  us  —  public 
and  private  history,  conquerors,  statesmen,  sharp  hypocrites, 
and  brave  designers,  —  yes,  they  all  teach  us  how  mighty  one 
man  of  great  intellect  and  no  scruple  is  against  the  justice 
of  millions!  The  One  Man  moves;  the  Mass  is  inert.  Jus- 
tice sits  on  a  throne;  Roguery  never  rests,  —  Activity  is  the 
lever  of  Archimedes. 


482  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Qdam  multa  iujusta  ac  prava  fiunt  moribus.^  —  Tcll. 

.     .     .     Volat  ambiguis 
Mobilis  alis  Hora.^  —  Seneca. 

Mr.  Egbert  Beaufort  sought  Mr.  Blackwell,  and  long, 
rambling,  and  disjointed  was  his  narrative.  Mr.  Blackwell, 
after  some  consideration,  proposed  to  set  about  doing  the  very- 
things  that  Lilburne  had  proposed  at  once  to  do;  but  the  law- 
yer expressed  himself  legally  and  covertly,  so  that  it  did  not 
seem  to  the  sober  sense  of  Mr.  Beaufort  at  all  the  same  plan. 
He  was  not  the  least  alarmed  at  what  Mr.  Blackwell  pro- 
posed, though  so  shocked  at  what  Lilburne  dictated.  Black- 
well  M^ould  go  the  next  day  into  Wales;  he  would  find  out 
Mr.  Jones;  he  would  sound  him!  Nothing  was  more  com- 
mon, with  people  of  the  nicest  honour,  than  just  to  get  a  wit- 
ness out  of  the  way !  Done  in  election  petitions,  for  instance, 
every  day. 

"True,"  said  Mr.  Beaufort,  much  relieved. 

Then,  after  having  done  that,  Mr.  Blackwell  would  return 
to  town,  and  cross  over  to  Boulogne  to  see  this  very  impudent 
person  whom  Arthur  (young  men  were  so  apt  to  be  taken  in!) 
had  actually  believed.  He  had  no  doubt  he  could  settle  it 
all.  Robert  Beaufort  returned  to  Berkeley  Square  actually 
in  spirits.  There  he  found  Lilburne,  who,  on  reflection,  see- 
ing that  Blackwell  was  at  all  events  more  up  to  the  business 
than  his  brother,  assented  to  the  propriety  of  the  arrangement. 

Mr.  Blackwell  accordingly  did  set  off  the  next  day.  That 
wexiday,  perhaps,  made  all  the  difference.  Within  two  hours 
from  his  gaining  the  document  so  important,  Philip,  without 

1  "  How  many  unjust  and  vicious  actions  are  perpetrated  under  the  name 
of  morals." 

2  "  The  hour  flies  moving  with  doubtful  wings." 


XIGIIT  AND  MORNING.  483 

any  subtler  exertion  of  intellect  than  the  decision  of  a  plain, 
bold  sense,  had  already  forestalled  both  the  peer  and  the  law- 
yer. He  had  sent  down  Mr.  BarloAv's  head  clerk  to  his  mas- 
ter in  Wales  with  the  document,  and  a  short  account  of  the 
manner  in  which  it  had  been  discovered.  And  fortunate,  in- 
deed, was  it  that  the  copy  had  been  found ;  for  all  the  inquir- 
ies of  Mr.  Barlow  at  A had  failed,  and  probably  would 

have  failed,  without  such  a  clew,  in  fastening  upon  any  one 
probable  person  to  have  officiated  as  Caleb  Price's  amanuen- 
sis. The  sixteen  hours'  start  Mr.  Barlow  gained  over  Black- 
well  enabled  the  former  to  see  Mr.  Jones,  to  show  him  his 
own  handwriting,  to  get  a  written  and  witnessed  attestation 
from  which  the  curate,  however  poor,  and  however  tempted, 
could  never  well  have  escaped  (even  had  he  been  dishonest, 
which  he  was  not)  of  his  perfect  recollection  of  the  fact  of 
making  an  extract  from  the  registry  at  Caleb's  desire,  though 
he  owned  he  had  quite  forgotten  the  names  he  extracted  till 
they  were  again  placed  before  him.  Barlow  took  care  to 
arouse  Mr.  Jones's  interest  in  the  case,  quitted  Wales,  has- 
tened over  to  Boulogne,  saw  Captain  Smith,  and  without 
bribes,  without  threats,  but  by  plainly  proving  to  that  worthy 
person  that  he  could  not  return  to  England  nor  see  his  brother 
without  being  immediately  arrested;  that  his  brother's  evi- 
dence was  already  pledged  on  the  side  of  truth;  and  that  by 
the  acquisition  of  new  testimony  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
the  suit  would  be  successful,— he  diverted  the  Captain  from 
all  disposition  towards  perfidy,  convinced  him  on  which  side 
his  interests  lay,  and  saw  him  return  to  Paris,  where  very 
shortly  afterwards  he  disappeared  forever  from  this  world, 
being  forced  into  a  duel,  much  against  his  will  (with  a 
Frenchman  whom  he  had  attempted  to  defraud),  and  shot 
through  the  lungs.  Thus  verifying  a  favourite  maxim  of 
Lord  Lilburne's, —  namely,  that  it  does  not  do,  in  the  long 
run,  for  little  men  to  play  the  Great  Game! 

On  the  same  day  that  Blackwell  returned,  frustrated  in  his 
half-and-half  attempts  to  corrupt  Mr.  Jones,  and  not  having 
been  able  even  to  discover  Mr.  Smith,  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort 
received  a  notice  of  an  Action  for  Ejectment  to  be  brought 


484  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

by  Philip  Beaufort  at  the  next  Assizes;  and,  to  add  to  his 
afflictions,  Arthjir,  whom  he  had  hitherto  endeavoured  to 
amuse  by  a  sort  of  ambiguous  shilly-shally  correspondence, 
became  so  alarmingly  worse  that  his  mother  brought  him  up 
to  town  for  advice.  Lord  Lilburne  was,  of  course,  sent  for; 
and  on  learning  all,  his  counsel  was  prompt. 

"I  told  you  before  that  this  man  loves  your  daughter.  See 
if  you  can  effect  a  compromise.  The  lawsuit  will  be  ugly, 
and  probably  ruinous.  He  has  a  right  to  claim  six  years' 
arrears, —  that  is  above  £100,000.  Make  yourself  his  father- 
in-law,  and  me  his  uncle-in-law;  and  since  we  can't  kill  the 
wasp,  we  may  at  least  soften  the  venom  of  his  sting." 

Beaufort,  still  perplexed,  irresolute,  sought  his  son;  and 
for  the  first  time,  spoke  to  him  frankly,  —  that  is,  frankly  for 
Eobert  Beaufort!  He  owned  that  the  copy  of  the  register 
had  been  found  by  Lilburne  in  a  secret  drawer;  he  made  the 
best  of  the  story  Lilburne  himself  furnished  him  with  (adher- 
ing, of  course,  to  the  assertion  uttered  or  insinuated  to  Philip) 
in  regard  to  Fanny's  abduction  and  interposition;  he  said 
nothing  of  his  attempt  to  destroy  the  paper.  Why  should 
he?  By  admitting  the  copy  in  court  —  if  so  advised  —  he 
could  get  rid  of  Fanny's  evidence  altogether;  even  without 
such  concession,  her  evidence  might  possibly  be  objected  to 
or  eluded.  He  confessed  that  he  feared  the  witness  who  cop- 
ied the  register  and  the  witness  to  the  marriage  were  alive; 
and  then  he  talked  pathetically  of  his  desire  to  do  what  was 
right,  his  dread  of  slander  and  misinterpretation.  He  said 
nothing  of  Sidney,  and  his  belief  that  Sidney  and  Charles 
Spencer  were  the  same ;  because,  if  his  daughter  were  to  be 
the  instrument  for  effecting  a  compromise,  it  was  clear  that 
her  engagement  with  Spencer  must  be  cancelled  and  con- 
cealed. And  luckily  Arthur's  illness  and  Camilla's  timidity, 
joined  now  to  her  father's  injunctions  not  to  excite  Arthur  in 
his  present  state  with  any  additional  causes  of  anxiety,  pre- 
vented the  confidence  that  might  otherwise  have  ensued  be- 
tween the  brother  and  sister.  And  Camilla,  indeed,  had  no 
heart  for  such  a  conference.  How,  when  she  looked  on 
Arthur's  glassy  eye,  and  listened  to  his  hectic  cough,  could 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  485 

she  talk  to  him  of  love  and  marriage?    As  to  the  automaton, 
Mrs.  Beaufort,  Robert  made  sure  of  her  discretion. 

Arthur  listened  attentively  to  his  father's  communication; 
and  the  result  of  that  interview  was  the  following  letter  from 
Arthur  to  his  cousin:  — 

1  write  to  you  without  fear  of  misconstruction,  for  I  write  to  you  un- 
known to  all  my  family,  and  I  am  the  only  one  of  them  who  can  have  no 
personal  interest  in  the  struggle  about  to  take  place  between  my  father 
and  yourself.  Before  the  law  can  decide  between  you,  I  shall  be  in  my 
grave.  1  write  this  from  the  Bed  of  Death.  Philip,  I  write  this,  —  /, 
who  stood  beside  a  deathbed  more  sacred  to  you  than  mine,  —  I,  who 
received  your  mother's  last  sigh.  And  with  that  sigh  there  was  a  smile 
that  lasted  when  the  sigh  was  gone,  for  I  promised  to  befriend  her  chil- 
dren. Heaven  knows  how  anxiously  1  sought  to  fulfil  that  solemn  vow  1 
Feeble  and  sick  myself,  I  followed  you  and  your  brother  with  no  aim,  no 
prayer,  but  this,  —  to  embrace  you  and  say,  "  Accept  a  new  brother  in 
me."  I  spare  you  the  humiliation,  for  it  is  yours,  not  mine,  of  recalling 
what  passed  between  us  when  at  last  we  met.  Yet  I  still  sought  to  save 
at  least  Sidney,  more  especially  confided  to  my  care  by  his  dying  mother. 
He  mysteriously  eluded  our  search ;  but  we  had  reason,  by  a  letter 
received  from  some  unknown  hand,  to  believe  him  saved  and  provided 
for.  Again  I  met  you  at  Paris.  I  saw  you  were  poor.  Judging  from 
your  associate,  I  might  with  justice  think  you  depraved.  Mindful  of 
your  declaration  never  to  accept  bounty  from  a  Beaufort,  and  remember- 
ing with  natural  resentment  the  outrage  I  had  before  received  from  you, 
I  judged  it  vain  to  seek  and  remonstrate  with  you,  but  I  did  not  judge  it 
vain  to  aid.  I  sent  you,  anonymously,  what  at  least  would  suffice,  if  abso- 
lute poverty  had  subjected  you  to  evil  courses,  to  rescue  you  from  them 
if  your  heart  were  so  disposed.  Perhaps  that  sum,  trifling  as  it  was,  may 
have  smoothed  your  path  and  assisted  your  career.  And  why  tell  you 
all  this  now  ?  To  dissuade  from  asserting  rights  you  conceive  to  be 
just? — Heaven  forbid  1  If  justice  is  with  you,  so  also  is  the  duty  due 
to  your  mother's  name.  But  simply  for  this  ;  that  in  asserting  such 
rights,  you  content  yourself  with  justice,  not  revenge;  that  in  righting 
yourself  you  do  not  wrong  others.  If  the  law  should  decide  for  you,  the 
arrears  you  could  demand  would  leave  my  father  and  sister  beggars. 
This  may  be  law,  —  it  would  not  be  justice  ;  for  my  father  solemnly 
believed  himself,  and  had  every  apparent  probability  in  his  favour,  the 
true  heir  of  the  wealth  that  devolved  upon  him.  This  is  not  all.  There 
may  be  circumstances  connected  with  the  discovery  of  a  certain  docu- 
ment that,  if  authentic,  and  I  do  not  presume  to  question  it,  may  decide 


486  NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

the  contest  so  far  as  it  rests  on  truth,  —  circumstances  which  mifht  seem 
to  bear  hard  upon  my  father's  good  name  and  faith.  1  do  not  know 
sufficiently  of  law  to  say  how  far  these  could  be  publicly  uro-ed,  or,  if 
urged,  exaggerated  and  tortured  by  an  advocate's  calumnious  ingenuity. 
But  again,  1  say  justice,  and  not  revenge  !  And  with  this  I  conclude, 
enclosing  to  you  these  lines,  written  in  your  own  hand,  and  leaving  you 
the  arbiter  of  their  value.  Arthur  Beaufort. 

The  lines  inclosed  were  these,  a  second  time  placed  before 
the  reader ; — 

"  1  cannot  guess  who  you  are.  They  say  that  you  call  yourself  a 
relation  ;  that  must  be  some  mistake.  1  knew  not  that  my  poor  mother 
had  relations  so  kind.  But,  whoever  you  be,  you  soothed  her  last  hours, 
she  died  in  your  arms;  and  if  ever  —  years,  long  years,  hence  —  we 
should  chance  to  meet,  and  I  can  do  anything  to  aid  another,  my  blood 
and  my  life  and  my  heart  and  my  soul,  —  all  are  slaves  to  your  will  I  If 
you  be  really  of  her  kindred  I  commend  to  you  my  brother  ;  he  is  at 

with  Mr.  Morton.     If  you  can  serve  him,  my  mother's  soul  will 

watch  over  you  as  a  guardian  angel.  As  for  me,  I  ask  no  help  from  any 
one ;  I  go  into  the  world,  and  will  carve  out  my  own  way.  So  much  do 
I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  charity  from  others  that  I  do  not  believe  I 
could  bless  you  as  I  do  now,  if  your  kindness  to  me  did  not  close  with  the 
stone  upon  my  mother's  grave.  Philip. 


This  letter  was  sent  to  the  only  address  of  M.  de  Vaudemont 
which  the  Beauforts  knew,  —  namely,  his  apartments  in  town, 
—  and  he  did  not  receive  it  the  day  it  was  sent. 

Meanwhile  Arthur  Beaufort's  malady  continued  to  gain 
ground  rapidly.  His  father,  absorbed  in  his  own  more  selfish 
fears  (though,  at  the  first  sight  of  Arthur,  overcome  by  the 
alteration  of  his  appearance),  had  ceased  to  consider  his  ill- 
ness fatal.  In  fact,  his  affection  for  Arthur  was  rather  one  of 
pride  than  love;  long  absence  had  weakened  the  ties  of  early 
custom.  He  prized  him  as  an  heir  rather  than  treasured  him 
as  a  son.  It  almost  seemed  that  as  the  Heritage  was  in  dan- 
ger, so  the  Heir  became  less  dear:  this  was  only  because  he 
was  less  thought  of.  Poor  Mrs.  Beaufort,  yet  but  partially 
acquainted  with  the  terrors  of  her  husband,  still  clung  to 
hope  for  Arthur.     Her  affection  for  him  brought  out  from  the 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  487 

depths  of  her  cold  and  insignificant  character  qualities  that 
had  never  before  been  apparent.  She  watched,  she  nursed, 
she  tended  him.  The  fine  lady  was  gone;  nothing  but  the 
mother  was  left  behind. 

With  a  delicate  constitution  and  with  an  easy  temper, 
which  yielded  to  the  influence  of  companions  inferior  to  him- 
self except  in  bodily  vigour  and  more  sturdy  will,  Arthur 
Beaufort  had  been  ruined  by  prosperity.  His  talents  and  ac- 
quirements, if  not  first-rate,  at  least  far  above  mediocrity, 
had  only  served  to  refine  his  tastes,  not  to  strengthen  his 
mind;  his  amiable  impulses,  his  charming  disposition,  and 
sweet  temper,  had  only  served  to  make  him  the  dupe  of  the 
parasites  that  feasted  on  the  lavish  heir;  his  heart,  frittered 
away  in  the  usual  round  of  light  intrigues  and  hollow  pleas- 
ures, had  become  too  sated  and  exhausted  for  the  redeeming 
blessings  of  a  deep  and  a  noble  love.  He  had  so  lived  for 
Pleasure  that  he  had  never  known  Happiness.  His  frame 
broken  by  excesses  in  which  his  better  nature  never  took 
delight,  he  came  home  —  to  hear  of  ruin  and  to  die! 

It  was  evening  in  the  sick-room.  Arthur  had  risen  from 
the  bed  to  which,  for  some  days,  he  had  voluntarily  taken, 
and  was  stretched  on  the  sofa  before  the  fire.  Camilla  was 
leaning  over  him,  keeping  in  the  shade,  that  he  might  not  see 
the  tears  which  she  could  not  suppress.  His  mother  had 
been  endeavouring  to  amuse  him,  as  she  would  have  amused 
herself,  by  reading  aloud  one  of  the  light  novels  of  the  hour, 
—  novels  that  paint  the  life  of  the  higher  classes  as  one 
gorgeous  holiday 

"My  dear  mother,"  said  the  patient,  querulously,  "I  have 
no  interest  in  these  false  descriptions  of  the  life  I  have  led. 
I  know  that  life's  worth.  Ah,  had  I  been  trained  to  some 
employment,  some  profession!  had  I  —  well  —  it  is  weak  to 
repine.  Mother,  tell  me,  you  have  seen  M.  de  Vaudemont : 
is  he  strong  and  healthy  ?  " 

"Yes;  too  much  so.  He  has  not  your  elegance,  dear 
Arthur." 

"  And  do  you  admire  him,  Camilla?  Has  no  other  caught 
your  heart  or  your  fancy?  " 


488  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

"My  dear  Arthur,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Beaufort,  you  forget 
that  Camilla  is  scarcely  out;  and  of  course  a  young  girl's 
affections,  if  she  's  well  brought  up,  are  regulated  by  the  ex- 
perience of  her  parents.  It  is  time  to  take  the  medicine:  it 
certainly  agrees  with  you;  you  have  more  colour  to-day,  my 
dear,   dear  son." 

While  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  pouring  out  the  medicine,  the 
door  gently  opened,  and  Mr.  Eobert  Beaufort  appeared;  be- 
hind him  there  rose  a  taller  and  a  statelier  form,  but  one 
which  seemed  more  bent,  more  humbled,  more  agitated. 
Beaufort  advanced.  Camilla  looked  up  and  turned  pale.  The 
visitor  escaped  from  Mr.  Beaufort's  grasp  on  his  arm;  he 
came  forward,  trembling;  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  Arthur, 
and  seizing  his  hand,  bent  over  it  in  silence, —  but  silence  so 
stormy!  silence  more  impressive  than  all  words;  his  breast 
heaved,  his  whole  frame  shook.  Arthur  guessed  at  once 
whom  he  saw,  and  bent  down  gently  as  if  to  raise  his  visitor. 

"Oh,  Arthur!  Arthur!"  then  cried  Philip;  "forgive  me! 
My  mother's  comforter,  my  cousin,  my  brother!  Oh,  brother, 
forgive  me ! " 

And  as  he  half  rose,  Arthur  stretched  out  his  arms,  and 
Philip  clasped  him  to  his  breast. 

It  is  in  vain  to  describe  the  different  feelings  that  agitated 
those  who  beheld,  —  the  selfish  congratulations  of  Robert, 
mingled  with  a  better  and  purer  feeling;  the  stupor  of  the 
mother;  the  emotions  that  she  herself  could  not  unravel, 
which  rooted  Camilla  to  the  spot. 

"You  own  me,  then,  —  you  own  me!  "  cried  Philip.  "You 
accept  the  brotherhood  that  my  mad  passions  once  rejected ! 
And  yoTi,  too  —  you,  Camilla, — you  who  once  knelt  by  my 
side,  under  this  very  roof, — do  you  remember  me  now?  Oh, 
Arthur!  that  letter  —  that  letter!  yes,  indeed,  that  aid  which 
I  ascribed  to  any  one  rather  than  to  you  made  the  date  of 
a  fairer  fortune.  I  may  have  owed  to  that  aid  the  very  fate 
that  has  preserved  me  till  now;  the  very  name  which  I  have 
not  discredited.  No,  no;  do  not  think  you  can  ask  me  a 
favour;  you  can  but  claim  your  due.  Brother!  my  dear 
brother!" 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  489 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Warwick.  —  Exceeding  well !  his  cares  are  uow  all  over.  —  Henry  IV. 

The  excitemeut  of  this  interview  soon  overpowering  Arthur, 
Philip,  in  quitting  the  room  with  Mr.  Beaufort,  asked  a  con- 
ference with  that  gentleman;  and  they  went  into  the  very 
parlour  from  which  the  rich  man  had  once  threatened  to  expel 
the  haggard  suppliant.  Philip  glanced  round  the  room,  and 
the  whole  scene  came  again  before  him.  After  a  pause,  he 
thus  began, — 

"  Mr.  Beaufort,  let  the  Past  be  forgotten.  We  may  have 
need  of  mutual  forgiveness,  and  I,  who  have  so  wronged  your 
noble  son,  am  willing  to  suppose  that  I  misjudged  you.  I 
cannot,   it  is  true,   forego  this  lawsuit." 

Mr.  Beaufort's  face  fell. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  do  so.  I  am  the  trustee  of  my  father's 
honour  and  my  mother's  name;  I  must  vindicate  both;  I 
cannot  forego  this  lawsuit.  But  when  I  once  bowed  myself 
to  enter  your  house, —  then  only  with  a  hope,  where  now  I 
have  the  certainty,  of  obtaining  my  heritage,— it  was  with 
the  resolve  to  bury  in  oblivion  every  sentiment  that  would 
transgress  the  most  temperate  justice.  JS'oic,  I  will  do  more. 
If  the  law  decide  against  me,  we  are  as  we  were;  if  with  me 
—  listen:  I  will  leave  you  the  lands  of  Beaufort,  for  your  life 
and  your  son's.  I  ask  but  for  me  and  for  mine  such  a  deduc- 
tion from  your  wealth  as  will  enable  me,  should  my  brother 
be  yet  living,  to  provide  for  him;  and  (if  you  approve  the 
choice,  which  out  of  all  earth  I  would  desire  to  make)  to  give 
whatever  belongs  to  more  refined  or  graceful  existence  than  I 
myself  care  for,  to  her  whom  I  would  call  my  wife.  Robert 
Beaufort,  in  this  room  I  once  asked  you  to  restore  to  me  the 
only  being  I  then  loved:  I  am  now  again  your  suppliant;  and 
this  time  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  grant  my  prayer.     Let 


490  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

Arthur  be,  in  truth,  my  brother;  give  me,  if  I  prove  myself, 
as  I  feel  assured,  entitled  to  hold  the  name  my  father  bore, 
give  me  your  daughter  as  my  wife;  give  me  Camilla,  and  I 
will  not  envy  you  the  lands  I  am  willing  for  myself  to  resign; 
and  if  they  pass  to  my  children,  those  children  will  be  your 
daughter's ! " 

The  first  impulse  of  Mr.  Beaufort  was  to  grasp  the  hand 
held  out  to  him;  to  pour  forth  an  incoherent  torrent  of  praise 
and  protestation,  of  assurances  that  he  could  not  hear  of  such 
generosity,  that  what  was  right  was  right,  that  he  should  be 
proud  of  such  a  son-in-law,  and  much  more  in  the  same  key. 
And  in  the  midst  of  this,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  Mr.  Beaufort 
that  if  Philip's  case  were  really  as  good  as  he  said  it  was, 
he  could  not  talk  so  coolly  of  resigning  the  property  it  would 
secure  him  for  the  term  of  a  life  (Mr.  Beaufort  thought  of  his 
own)  so  uncommonly  good,  to  say  nothing  of  Arthur's.  At 
this  notion,  he  thought  it  best  not  to  commit  himself  too  far; 
drew  in  as  artfully  as  he  could,  until  he  could  consult  Lord 
Lilburne  and  his  lawyer;  and  recollecting  also  that  he  had  a 
great  deal  to  manage  with  respect  to  Camilla  and  her  prior 
attachment,  he  began  to  talk  of  his  distress  for  Arthur,  of 
the  necessity  of  waiting  a  little  before  Camilla  was  spoken 
to  while  so  agitated  about  her  brother,  of  the  exceedingly 
strong  case  which  his  lawyer  advised  him  he  possessed,  —  not 
but  what  he  would  rather  rest  the  matter  on  justice  than  law, 
—  and  that  if  the  law  should  be  with  him,  he  would  not  the 
less  (provided  he  did  not  force  his  daughter's  inclinations,  of 
which,  indeed,  he  had  no  fear)  be  most  happy  to  bestow  her 
hand  on  his  brother's  son,  with  such  a  portion  as  would  be 
most  handsome  to  all  parties. 

It  often  happens  to  us  in  this  world,  that  when  we  come 
with  our  heart  in  our  hands  to  some  person  or  other,  Avhen  we 
pour  out  some  generous  burst  of  feeling  so  enthusiastic  and 
self-sacrificing  that  a  bystander  would  call  us  fool  and 
Quixote, —  it  often,  I  say,  happens  to  us,  to  find  our  warm 
self  suddenly  thrown  back  upon  our  cold  self;  to  discover 
that  we  are  utterly  uncomprehended,  and  that  the  swine  who 
would   have  munched  up  the  acorn  does  not  know  what  to 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  491 

make  of  the  pearl.  That  sudden  ice  which  then  freezes  over 
us,  that  supreme  disgust  and  despair  almost  of  the  whole 
world,  which  for  the  moment  we  confound  with  the  one 
worldling,  they  who  have  felt  may  reasonably  ascribe  to 
Philip.  He  listened  to  Mr.  Beaufort  in  utter  and  contemptu- 
ous silence,  and  then  replied  only, — 

"  Sir,  at  all  events  this  is  a  question  for  law  to  decide.  If 
it  decide  as  you  think,  it  is  for  you  to  act;  if  as  I  think,  it  is 
for  me.  Till  then  1  will  speak  to  3'ou  no  more  of  your  daugh- 
ter, or  my  intentions.  Meanwhile,  all  I  ask  is  the  liberty  to 
visit  your  son.    I  would  not  be  banished  from  his  sick-room!  " 

*'  My  dear  nephew !  "  cried  Mr.  Beaufort,  again  alarmed, 
"consider  this  house  as  your  home." 

Philip  bowed  and  retreated  to  the  door,  followed  obse- 
quiously by  his  uncle. 

It  chanced  that  both  Lord  Lilburne  and  ]\Ir.  Blackwell 
were  of  the  same  mind  as  to  the  course  advisable  for  Mr. 
Beaufort  now  to  pursue.  Lord  Lilburne  was  not  only  anxious 
to  exchange  a  hostile  litigation  for  an  amicable  lawsuit,  but 
he  was  really  eager  to  put  the  seal  of  relationship  upon  any 
secret  with  regard  to  himself  that  a  man  who  might  inherit 
£20,000  a  year  —  a  dead  shot,  and  a  bold  tongue  —  might 
think  fit  to  disclose.  This  made  him  more  earnest  than  he 
otherwise  might  have  been  in  advice  as  to  other  people's 
affairs.  He  spoke  to  Beaufort  as  a  man  of  the  world,  to 
Blackwell  as  a  lawyer. 

"Pin  the  man  down  to  his  generosity,"  said  Lilburne,  "be- 
fore he  gets  the  property.  Possession  makes  a  great  change 
in  a  man's  value  of  money.  After  all,  you  can't  enjoy  the 
property  when  you're  dead:  he  gives  it  next  to  Arthur,  who 
is  not  married;  and  if  anj'thing  happen  to  Arthur,  poor  fel- 
low, why,  in  devolving  on  your  daughter's  husband  and  chil- 
dren, it  goes  in  the  right  line.  Pin  him  down  at  once:  get 
credit  with  the  world  for  the  most  noble  and  disinterested 
conduct,  by  letting  your  counsel  state  that  the  instant  you 
discovered  the  lost  document  you  wished  to  throw  no  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  proving  the  marriage,  and  that  the  only  thing 
to  consider  is,  if" the  marriage  be  proved;  if  so,  you  will  be 


492  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

the  first  to  rejoice,  etc.      You  know  all  that  sort  of  humbug 
as  well  as  any  man !  " 

Mr.  Blackwell  suggested  the  same  advice,  though  in  differ- 
ent   words, —  after    taking    the    opinions    of    three    eminent 
members  of  the  bar.     Those  opinions,   indeed,  were  not  all 
alike;  one  was  adverse  to  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort's  chance  of 
success,  one  was  doubtful  of  it,  the  third  maintained  that  he 
had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  action,  —  except,  possibly,  the 
ill-natured  construction  of  the  world.     Mr.  Robert  Beaufort 
disliked  the  idea  of  the  world's  ill-nature  almost  as  much  as 
he  did  that  of  losing  his  property.     And  when  even  this  last 
and  more  encouraging  authority,  learning  privately  from  Mr. 
Blackwell  that  Arthur's  illness  was  of  a  nature  to  terminate 
fatally,  observed  that  a  compromise  with  a  claimant,  who  was 
at  all  events  Mr.  Beaufort's  nephew,  by  which  Mr.  Beaufort 
could  secure  the  enjoyment  of  the  estates  to  himself  for  life, 
and  to  his  son  for  life  also,  should  not  (whatever  his  proba- 
bilities of  legal  success)  be  hastily  rejected,— unless  he  had  a 
peculiar  affection  for  a  very  distant  relation  who,  failing  Mr. 
Beaufort's  male  issue  and  Philip's  claim,   would  be  heir-at- 
law,  but  whose  rights  would  cease  if  Arthur  liked  to  cut  off 
the  entail,— Mr.  Beaufort  at  once  decided.     He  had  a  perso- 
nal dislike  to  that  distant  heir-at-law;  he  had  a  strong  desire 
to  retain  the  esteem  of  the  world;  he  had  an  innate  conviction 
of  the  justice  of  Philip's  claim;  he  had  a  remorseful  recollec- 
tion of  his  brother's  generous  kindness  to  himself;  he  pre- 
ferred to  have  for  his  heir,   in  case  of  Arthur's  decease,   a 
nephew  who  would  marry  his  daughter,  than  a  remote  kins- 
man.   And  should,  after  all,  the  lawsuit  fail  to  prove  Philip's 
right,  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  the  estate  in  his  own  poAver 
by  Arthur's  act  in  cutting  off  the  entail.     Brief,— all  these 
reasons  decided  him.     He  saw  Philip,  he  spoke  to  Arthur; 
and  all  the  preliminaries,  as  suggested  above,  were  arranged 
between  the  parties.     The  entail  was  cut  off,  and  Arthur  se- 
cretly prevailed  upon  his  father,  to  whom,  for  the  present, 
the  fee-simple  thus  belonged,  to  make  a  will,   by  which  he 
bequeathed   the  estates  to  Philip  without  reference   to   the 
question  of  his  legitimacy.     Mr.  Beaufort  felt  his  conscience 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  493 

greatly  eased  after  this  action, —  which,  too,  he  could  always 
retract  if  he  pleased ;  and  henceforth  the  lawsuit  became  but 
a  matter  of  form,  so  far  as  the  property  it  involved  was 
concerned. 

While  these  negotiations  went  on,  Arthur  continued  grad- 
ually to  decline.  Philip  was  with  him  always.  The  sufferer 
took  a  strange  liking  to  this  long-dreaded  relation,  this  man 
of  iron  frame  and  thews.  In  Philip  there  was  so  much  of  life 
that  Arthur  almost  felt  as  if  in  his  presence  itself  there  was 
an  antagonism  to  death.  And  Camilla  saw  thus  her  cousin, 
day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  in  that  sick  chamber,  lending  him- 
self, with  the  gentle  tenderness  of  a  woman,  to  soften  the 
pang,  to  arouse  the  weariness,  to  cheer  the  dejection.  Philip 
never  spoke  to  her  of  love:  in  such  a  scene  that  had  been 
impossible.  She  overcame  in  their  mutual  cares  the  embar- 
rassment she  had  before  felt  in  his  presence}  whatever  her 
other  feelings,  she  could  not,  at  least,  but  be  grateful  to  one 
so  tender  to  her  brother.  Three  letters  of  Charles  Spencer 
had  been,  in  the  afflictions  of  the  house,  only  answered  by  a 
brief  line.  She  now  took  the  occasion  of  a  momentary  and 
delusive  amelioration  in  Arthur's  disease  to  -write  to  him 
more  at  length.  She  was  carrying,  as  usual,  the  letter  to  her 
mother,  when  Mr.  Beaufort  met  her,  and  took  the  letter  from 
her  hand.  He  looked  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  and  bade 
her  follow  him  into  his  study.  It  was  then  that  Camilla 
learned,  for  the  first  time,  distinctly,  the  claims  and  rights 
of  her  cousin;  then  she  learned  also  at  what  price  those 
rights  were  to  be  enforced  with  the  least  possible  injury  to 
her  father.  Mr.  Beaufort  naturally  put  the  case  before  her 
in  the  strongest  point  of  the  dilemma.  He  was  to  be  ruined, 
—  utterly  ruined;  a  pauper,  a  beggar,  if  Camilla  did  not  save 
him.  The  master  of  his  fate  demanded  his  daughter's  hand. 
Habitually  subservient  to  even  a  whim  of  her  parents,  this 
intelligence,  the  entreaty,  the  command  with  which  it  was 
accompanied,  overwhelmed  her.  She  answered  but  by  tears ; 
and  Mr.  Beaufort,  assured  of  her  submission,  left  her,  to  con- 
sider of  the  tone  of  the  letter  he  himself  should  write  to  Mr. 
Spencer.     He  had  sat  down  to  this  very  task  when  he  was 


494  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

summoned  to  Arthur's  room.  His  son  was  suddenly  taken 
worse:  spasms  that  threatened  immediate  danger  convulsed 
and  exhausted  him;  and  when  these  were  allayed,  he  con- 
tinued for  three  days  so  feeble  that  Mr.  Beaufort,  his  eyes 
now  thoroughly  opened  to  the  loss  that  awaited  him,  had  no 
thoughts  even  for  worldly  interests. 

On  the  night  of  the  third  day,  Philip,  Robert  Beaufort,  his 
wife,  his  daughter,  were  grouped  round  the  death-bed  of 
Arthur.  The  sufferer  had  just  awakened  from  sleep,  and  he 
motioned  to  Philip  to  raise  him.  Mr.  Beaufort  started,  as  by 
the  dim  light  he  saw  his  son  in  the  arms  of  Catherine's  !  and 
another  Chamber  of  Death  seemed,  shadow-like,  to  replace 
the  one  before  him.  Words,  long  since  uttered,  knelled  in 
his  ear,  "There  shall  be  a  death-bed  yet  beside  which  you 
shall  see  the  spectre  of  her,  now  so  calm,  rising  for  retribu- 
tion from  the  grave !  "  His  blood  froze,  his  hair  stood  erect ; 
he  cast  a  hurried,  shrinking  glance  round  the  twilight  of  the 
darkened  room :  and  with  a  feeble  cry,  covered  his  white  face 
with  his  trembling  hands!  But  on  Arthur's  lips  there  was  a 
serene  smile;  he  turned  his  eyes  from  Philip  to  Camilla,  and 
murmured,  "  She  will  repay  you!  "  A  pause,  and  the  mother's 
shriek  rang  through  the  room!  Eobert  Beaufort  raised  his 
face  from  his  hands.     His  son  was  dead! 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

Jul.  —  And  what  reward  do  yon  propose  ? 

It  must  be  my  love.  —  Tlie  Double  Marriage. 

While  these  events,  dark,  hurried,  and  stormy,  had  befallen 
the  family  of  his  betrothed,  Sidney  had  continued  his  calm  life 
by  the  banks  of  the  lovely  lake.  After  a  few  weeks,  his  con- 
fidence in  Camilla's  fidelity  overbore  all  his  apprehensions  and 
forebodings.     Her  letters,  though  constrained  by  the  inspec- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  495 

tion  to  which  they  were  submitted,  gave  him  inexpressible 
consolation  and  delight.  He  began,  however,  early  to  fancy 
that  there  was  a  change  in  their  tone.  The  letters  seemed  to 
shun  the  one  subject  to  which  all  others  were  as  nought;  they 
turned  rather  upon  the  guests  assembled  at  Beaufort  Court; 
and  why  I  know  not,  —  for  there  was  nothing  in  them  to 
authorize  jealousy,  —  the  brief  words  devoted  to  M.  de  Vaude- 
mont  tilled  him  with  uneasy  and  terrible  suspicion.  He  gave 
vent  to  these  feelings,  as  fully  as  he  dared  do,  under  the 
knowledge  that  his  letter  would  be  seen;  and  Camilla  never 
again  even  mentioned  the  name  of  Vaudemont.  Then  there 
was  a  long  pause;  then  her  brother's  arrival  and  illness  were 
announced;  then,  at  intervals,  but  a  few  hurried  lines;  then 
a  complete,  long,  dreadful  silence;  and  lastly,  with  a  deep 
black  border  and  a  solemn  black  seal,  came  the  following  let- 
ter from  Mr.  Beaufort:  — 

My  Dear  Sir,  —  I  have  the  unutterable  grief  to  announce  to  you 
and  your  worthy  uncle  the  irreparable  loss  I  have  sustained  in  the  death 
of  my  only  son.  It  is  a  month  to-day  since  he  departed  this  life.  He  died, 
sir,  as  a  Christian  should  die,  —  humbly,  penitently, —  exaggerating  the 
few  faults  of  his  short  life,  but  (  and  here  the  writer's  hypocrisy,  though 
so  natural  to  him  —  ivas  it  that  he  knew  not  that  he  teas  hypociitical  f  — 
fairly  gave  way  before  the  real  and  human  anguish  for  which  there  is  no 
dictionary  !)  —  but  I  cannot  pursue  this  theme  ! 

Slowly  now  awakening  to  the  duties  yet  left  me  to  discharge,  I  cannot 
but  be  sensible  of  the  material  difference  in  the  prospects  of  my  remain- 
ing child.  Miss  Beaufort  is  now  the  heiress  to  an  ancient  name  and  a 
large  fortune.  She  subscribes  with  me  to  the  necessity  of  consulting 
those  new  considerations  which  so  melancholy  an  event  forces  upon  her 
mind.  The  little  fancy,  or  liking,  —  the  acquaintance  was  too  short  for 
more,  —  that  might  naturally  spring  up  between  two  amiable  young  per- 
sons thrown  together  in  the  country,  must  be  banished  from  our  thoughts. 
As  a  friend,  T  shall  be  always  happy  to  hear  of  your  welfare  ;  and  should 
you  ever  think  of  a  profession  in  which  I  can  serve  you,  you  may  com- 
mand my  utmost  interest  and  exertions.  I  know,  my  young  friend, 
what  you  will  feel  at  first,  and  how  disposed  you  will  be  to  call  me  mer- 
cenary and  selfish.  Heaven  knows  if  that  be  really  my  character !  But 
at  your  age  impressions  are  easily  effaced  ;  and  any  experienced  friend 
of  the  world  will  assure  you,  that,  in  the  altered  circumstances  of  the 
case,  I  have  no  option.     All  intercourse  and  correspondence,  of  course, 


496  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

cease  with  this  letter,  —  until,  at  least,  we  may  all  meet  with  no  senti- 
ments but  those  of  friendship  and  esteem.  I  desire  my  compliments  to 
your  worthy  uncle,  in  whieh  Mrs.  and  IMiss  Beaufort  join  ;  and  1  am  sure 
you  will  be  happy  to  hear  that  my  wife  and  daughter,  though  still  in 
great  affliction,  have  suffered  less  in  health  than  I  could  have  ventured 
to  anticipate. 

Believe  me,  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 

Robert  Beaufort. 
To  C.  Spencer,  Esq.,  Jun. 

When  Sidney  received  this  letter,  he  was  with  Mr.  Spencer, 
and  the  latter  read  it  over  the  young  man's  shoulder,  on  which, 
he  leaned  affectionately.  When  they  came  to  the  concluding 
words,  Sidney  turned  round  with  a  vacant  look  and  a  hollow 
smile.     "You  see,  sir,"  he  said,  "you  see  —  " 

"  My  boy,  my  son,  you  bear  this  as  you  ought.  Contempt 
will  soon  efface  —  " 

Sidney  started  to  his  feet,  and  his  whole  countenance  was 
changed. 

"Contempt I  yes,  for  him!  But  for  her  —  s/ie knows  it  not; 
she  is  no  party  to  this!  I  cannot  believe  it,  — I  will  not!  I 
—  I  —  "  and  he  rushed  out  of  the  room.  He  was  absent  till 
nightfall,  and  when  he  returned,  he  endeavoured  to  appear 
calm  —  but  it  was  in  vain. 

The  next  day  brought  him  a  letter  from  Camilla,  written 
unknown  to  her  parents,  —  short,  it  is  true  (confirming  the 
sentence  of  separation  contained  in  her  father's),  and  implor- 
ing him  not  to  reply  to  it;  but  still  so  full  of  gentle  and  of 
sorrowful  feeling,  so  evidently  worded  in  the  wish  to  soften 
the  anguish  she  inflicted,  that  it  did  more  than  soothe,  —  it 
even  administered  hope. 

Now  when  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort  had  recovered  the  ordinary 
tone  of  his  mind  sufficiently  to  indite  the  letter  Sidney  had 
just  r5ad,  he  had  become  fully  sensible  of  the  necessity  of 
concluding  the  marriage  between  Philip  and  Camilla  before 
the  publicity  of  the  lawsuit.  The  action  for  the  ejectment 
could  not  take  place  before  the  ensuing  March  or  April.  He 
would  waive  the  ordinary  etiquette  of  time  and  mourning  to 
arrange  all  before.     Indeed  he  lived  in  hourly  fear  lest  Philip 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  497 

should  discover  that  he  had  a  rival  in  his  brother,  and  break 
off  the  marriage  with  its  contingent  advantages.  The  first 
announcement  of  such  a  suit  in  the  newspapers  might  reach 
the  Spencers;  and  if  the  young  man  were,  as  he  doubted  not, 
Sidney  Beaufort,  would  necessarily  bring  him  forward,  and 
ensure  the  dreaded  explanation.  Thus  apprehensive  and  ever 
scheming,  Robert  Beaufort  spoke  to  Philip  so  much,  and  with 
such  apparent  feeling,  of  his  wish  to  gratify  at  the  earliest 
possible  period  the  last  wish  of  his  son,  in  the  union  now 
arranged ;  he  spoke  with  such  seeming  consideration  and  good 
sense  of  the  avoidance  of  all  scandal  and  misinterpretation  in 
the  suit  itself,  which  suit  a  previous  marriage  between  the 
claimant  and  his  daughter  would  show  at  once  to  be  of  so 
amicable  a  nature,  — that  Philip,  ardently  in  love  as  he  was, 
could  not  but  assent  to  any  hastening  of  his  expected  happi- 
ness compatible  with  decorum.  As  to  any  previous  publicity 
by  way  of  newspaper  comment,  he  agreed  with  Mr.  Beaufort 
in  deprecating  it.  But  then  came  the  question,  What  name 
was  he  to  bear  in  the  interval? 

"As  to  that,"  said  Philip,  somewhat  proudly,  "when,  after 
my  mother's  suit  in  her  own  behalf,  I  persuaded  her  not  to 
bear  the  name  of  Beaufort,  though  her  due,  —  and  for  my  own 
part,  I  prized  her  own  modest  name,  which  under  such  dark 
appearances  was  in  reality  spotless,  as  much  as  the  loftier 
one  which  you  bear  and  my  father  bore,  —  so  I  shall  not 
resume  the  name  the  law  denies  me  till  the  law  restores 
it  to  me.  Law  alone  can  efface  the  wrong  which  law  has 
done  me." 

Mr.  Beaufort  was  pleased  with  this  reasoning  (erroneous 
though  it  was),  and  he  now  hoped  that  all  would  be  safely 
arranged. 

That  a  girl  so  situated  as  Camilla,  and  of  a  character  not 
energetic  or  profound,  but  submissive,  dutiful,  and  timid, 
should  yield  to  the  arguments  of  her  father,  the  desire  of  her 
dying  brother;  that  she  should  not  dare  to  refuse  to  become 
the  instrument  of  peace  to  a  divided  family,  the  saving  sacri- 
fice to  her  father's  endangered  fortunes ;  that,  in  fine,  when, 
nearly  a  month  after  Arthur's  death,  her  father,  leading  her 

32 


498  NIGHT   AND    MORNING. 

into  the  room,  where  Philip  waited  her  footstep  Avith  a  beat- 
ing heart,  placed  her  hand  in  his,  and  Philip  falling  on  his 
knees  said,  "oNIay  I  hope  to  retain  this  hand  for  life?"  she 
should  falter  out  such  words  as  he  might  construe  into  not 
reluctant  acquiescenec, — that  all  this  should  happen  is  so 
natural  that  the  reader  is  already  prepared  for  it.  But  still 
she  thought  with  bitter  and  remorseful  feelings  of  him  thus 
deliberately  and  faithlessly  renounced.  She  felt  how  deeply 
he  had  loved  her;  she  knew  how  fearful  would  be  his  grief. 
She  looked  sad  and  thoughtful;  but  her  brother's  death  was 
sufficient  in  Philip's  eyes  to  account  for  that.  The  praises 
and  gratitude  of  her  father,  to  whom  she  suddenly  seemed  to 
become  an  object  of  even  greater  pride  and  affection  than  ever 
Arthur  had  been;  the  comfort  of  a  generous  heart,  that  takes 
pleasure  in  the  very  sacrifice  it  makes;  the  acquittal  of  her 
conscience  as  to  the  motives  of  her  conduct,  began,  however, 
to  produce  their  effect.  Nor,  as  she  had  lately  seen  more  of 
Philip,  could  she  be  insensible  of  his  attachment,  of  his  many 
noble  qualities,  of  the  pride  which  most  women  might  have 
felt  in  his  addresses,  when  his  rank  was  once  made  clear;  and 
as  she  had  ever  been  of  a  character  more  regulated  by  duty 
than  passion,  so  one  who  could  have  seen  what  was  passing  in 
her  mind  would  have  had  little  fear  for  Philip's  future  happi- 
ness in  her  keeping,  — little  fear  but  that,  when  once  married 
to  him,  her  affections  would  have  gone  along  with  her  duties; 
and  that  if  the  first  love  were  yet  recalled,  it  would  be  with  a 
sigh  due  rather  to  some  romantic  recollection  than  some  con- 
tinued regret.  Few  of  either  sex  are  ever  united  to  their  first 
love;  yet  married  people  jog  on,  and  call  each  other  "my 
dear"  and  "my  darling  "  all  the  same!  It  might  be,  it  is  true, 
that  Philip  would  be  scarcely  loved  with  the  intenseness  with 
which  he  loved;  but  if  Camilla's  feelings  were  capable  of  cor- 
responding to  the  ardent  and  impassioned  ones  of  that  strong 
and  vehement  nature,  such  feelings  were  not  yet  developed  in 
her.  The  heart  of  the  woman  might  still  be  half  concealed 
in  the  vale  of  the  virgin  innocence.  Philip  himself  was  sat- 
isfied ;  he  believed  that  he  was  beloved,  —  for  it  is  the  prop- 
erty of  love,  in  a  large  and  noble  heart,  to  reflect  itself,  and 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  499 

to  see  its  own  image  in  the  eyes  on  which  it  looks.  As  the 
Poet  gives  ideal  beauty  and  excellence  to  some  ordinary  child 
of  Eve,  worshipping  less  the  being  that  is  than  the  being  he 
imagines  and  conceives,  so  Love,  which  makes  us  all  poets  for 
a  while,  throws  its  own  divine  light  over  a  heart  perhaps 
really  cold;  and  becomes  dazzled  into  the  joy  of  a  false  belief 
by  the  very  lustre  with  which  it  surrounds  its  object. 

The  more,  however,  Camilla  saw  of  Philip,  the  more  (grad- 
ually overcoming  her  former  mysterious  and  superstitious  awe 
of  him)  she  grew  familiarized  to  his  peculiar  cast  of  character 
and  thought,  so  the  more  she  began  to  distrust  her  father's 
assertion  that  he  had  insisted  on  her  hand  as  a  price,  a  bar- 
gain, an  equivalent  for  the  sacrifice  of  a  dire  revenge.  And 
with  this  thought  came  another.  Was  she  worthy  of  this 
man? —  was  she  not  deceiving  him?  Ought  she  not  to  say,  at 
least,  that  she  had  known  a  previous  attachment,  however 
determined  she  might  be  to  subdue  it?  Often  the  desire  for 
this  just  and  honourable  confession  trembled  on  her  lips,  and 
as  often  was  it  checked  by  some  chance  circumstance  or  some 
maiden  fear.  Despite  their  connection,  there  was  not  yet 
between  them  that  delicious  intimacy  which  ought  to  accom- 
pany the  affiance  of  two  hearts  and  souls.  The  gloom  of  the 
house,  the  restraint  on  the  very  language  of  love  imposed  by 
a  death  so  recent  and  so  deplored,  accounted  in  much  for  this 
reserve.  And  for  the  rest,  Eobert  Beaufort  prudently  left 
them  very  few  and  very  brief  opportunities  to  be  alone. 

In  the  meantime,  Philip  (now  persuaded  that  the  Beauforts 
were  ignorant  of  his  brother's  fate)  had  set  Mr.  Barlow's 
activity  in  search  of  Sidney;  and  his  painful  anxiety  to  dis- 
cover one  so  dear  and  so  mysteriously  lost  was  the  only  cause 
of  uneasiness  apparent  in  the  brightening  Future.  While 
these  researches,  hitherto  fruitless,  were  being  made,  it  so 
happened,  as  London  began  now  to  refill,  and  gossip  began 
now  to  revive,  that  a  report  got  abroad,  no  one  knew  how 
(probably  from  the  servants)  that  M.  de  Vaudemont,  a  distin- 
guished French  officer,  was  shortly  to  lead  the  daughter  and 
sole  heiress  of  Robert  Beaufort, 'Esq.,  M.  P.,  to  the  hymeneal 
altar;  and  that  report  very  quickly  found  its  way  into  the 


500  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

London  papers ;  from  the  London  papers  it  spread  to  the  pro- 
vincial ;  it  reached  the  eyes  of  Sidney  in  his  now  gloomy  and 
despairing  solitude.     The  day  that  he  read  it  he  disappeared. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

Jul.     .     .     .     Good  lady,  love  him ! 

You  have  a  noble  and  an  honest  gentleman. 

I  ever  found  liim  so. 

Love  him  no  less  than  I  have  done,  and  serve  him, 

And  Heaven  shall  bless  you,  —  you  shall  bless  my  ashes. 

Beaumoxt  akd  Fletcher  :  The  Double  Marriage. 

"We  have  been  too  long  absent  from  Fanny;  it  is  time  to 
return  to  her.  The  delight  she  experienced  when  Philip  made 
her  understand  all  the  benefits,  the  blessings,  that  her  cour- 
age, nay,  her  intellect,  had  bestowed  upon  him,  the  blushing 

ecstasy  with  which  she  heard  (as  they  returned  to  H ,  the 

eventful  morning  of  her  deliverance,  side  by  side,  her  hand 
clasped  in  his,  and  often  pressed  to  his  grateful  lips)  his 
praises,  his  thanks,  his  fear  for  her  safety,  his  joy  at  regain- 
ing her,  —  all  this  amounted  to  a  bliss  which  till  then  she 
could  not  have  conceived  that  life  was  capable  of  bestowing. 

And  when  he  left  her  at  H ,  to  hurry  to  his  lawyer's  with 

the  recovered  document,  it  was  but  for  an  hour.  He  returned, 
and  did  not  quit  her  for  several  days ;  and  in  that  time  he  be- 
came sensible  of  her  astonishing,  and,  to  him,  it  seemed  mir- 
aculous, improvement  in  all  that  renders  Mind  the  equal  to 
INIind, — miraculous,  for  he  guessed  not  the  Influence  that 
makes  miracles  its  commonplace.  And  now  he  listened  atten- 
tively to  her  when  she  conversed;  he  read  with  her  (though 
reading  was  never  much  in  his  vocation) ;  his  unfastidious  ear 
was  charmed  with  her  voice,  when  it  sang  those  simple  songs; 
and  his  manner  (impressed  alike  by  gratitude  for  the  signal 
service  rendered  to  him,  and  by  the  discovery  that  Fanny  was 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  601 

no  longer  a  child,  whether  in  mind  or  years),  though  not  less 
gentle  than  before,  was  less  familiar,  less  superior,  more 
respectful,  and  more  earnest.  It  was  a  change  which  raised 
her  in  her  own  self-esteem.  Ah,  those  were  rosy  days  for 
Fanny ! 

A  less  sagacious  judge  of  character  than  Lilburne  would 
have  formed  doubts  perhaps  of  the  nature  of  Philip's  interest 
in  Fanny.  But  he  comprehended  at  once  the  fraternal  inter- 
est which  a  man  like  Philip  might  well  take  in  a  creature  like 
Fanny,  if  commended  to  his  care  by  a  protector  whose  doom 
was  so  awful  as  that  which  had  engulfed  the  life  of  William 
Gawtrey.  Lilburne  had  some  thoughts  at  first  of  claiming 
her;  but  as  he  had  no  power  to  compel  her  residence  with 
him,  he  did  not  wish,  on  consideration,  to  come  again  in  con- 
tact with  Philip  upon  ground  so  full  of  humbling  recollections 
as  that  still  overshadowed  by  the  images  of  Gawtrey  and  Mary. 
He  contented  himself  with  writing  an  artful  letter  to  Simon, 
stating  that  from  Fanny's  residence  with  Mr.  Gawtrey,  and 
from  her  likeness  to  her  mother,  whom  he  had  only  seen  as  a 
child,  he  had  conjectured  the  relationship  she  bore  to  himself; 
and  having  obtained  other  evidence  of  that  fact  (he  did  not 
say  what  or  where),  he  had  not  scrupled  to  remove  her  to  his 
roof,  meaning  to  explain  all  to  Mr.  Simon  Gawtrey  the  next 
day.  This  letter  was  accompanied  by  one  from  a  lawyer, 
informing  Simon  Gawtrey  that  Lord  Lilburne  would  pay  £200 
a  year,  in  quarterly  payments,  to  his  order;  and  that  he  was 
requested  to  add,  that  when  the  young  lady  he  had  so  benevo- 
lently reared  came  of  age,  or  married,  an  adequate  provision 
would  be  made  for  her.  Simon's  mind  blazed  up  at  this  last 
intelligence,  when  read  to  him,  though  he  neither  compre- 
hended nor  sought  to  know  why  Lord  Lilburne  should  be  so 
generous,  or  what  that  noble  person's  letter  to  himself  was 
intended  to  convey.  For  two  days,  he  seemed  restored  to  vig- 
orous sense ;  but  when  he  had  once  clutched  the  first  payment 
made  in  advance,  the  touch  of  the  money  seemed  to  numb  him 
back  to  his  lethargy:  the  excitement  of  desire  died  in  the  dull 
sense  of  possession. 

And  just  at  that  time  Fanny's  happiness  came  to  a  close. 


502  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

Philip  received  Arthur  Beaufort's  letter;  and  now  ensued 
long  and  frequent  absences;  and  on  his  return,  for  about  an 
hour  or  so  at  a  time,  he  spoke  of  sorrow  and  death;  and  the 
books  were  closed  and  the  songs  silenced.  All  fear  for 
Fanny's  safety  was,  of  course,  over;  all  necessity  for  her 
work.  Their  little  establishment  was  increased.  She  never 
stirred  out  without  Sarah;  yet  she  would  rather  that  there 
had  been  some  danger  on  her  account  for  him  to  guard  against, 
or  some  trial  that  his  smile  might  soothe.  His  prolonged  ab- 
sences began  to  prey  upon  her;  the  books  ceased  to  interest, 
no  study  tilled  up  the  dreary  gap,  her  step  grew  listless,  her 
cheek  pale;  she  was  sensible  at  last  that  his  presence  had 
become  necessary  to  her  very  life.  One  day,  he  came  to  the 
house  earlier  than  usual,  and  with  a  much  happier  and  serener 
expression  of  countenance  than  he  had  worn  of  late. 

Simon  was  dozing  in  his  chair,  with  his  old  dog,  now  scarce 
vigorous  enough  to  bark,  curled  up  at  his  feet.  Neither  man 
nor  dog  was  more  as  a  witness  to  what  was  spoken  than  the 
leathern  chair,  or  the  hearth-rug  on  which  they  severally 
reposed. 

There  was  something  which,  in  actual  life,  greatly  contrib- 
uted to  the  interest  of  Fanny's  strange  lot,  but  which,  in  nar- 
ration, I  feel  I  cannot  make  sufficiently  clear  to  the  reader; 
and  this  was  her  connection  and  residence  with  that  old  man, 
—  her  character  forming,  as  his  was  completely  gone;  here, 
the  blank  becoming  filled,  there,  the  page  fading  to  a  blank. 
It  was  the  utter,  total  Deathliness-in-Life  of  Simon,  that, 
while  so  impressive  to  see,  renders  it  impossible  to  bring  him 
before  the  reader  in  his  full  force  of  contrast  to  the  young 
Psyche.  He  seldom  spoke,  often  not  from  morning  till 
night;  he  now  seldom  stirred.  It  is  in  vain  to  describe  the 
indescribable:  let  the  reader  draw  the  picture  for  himself. 
And  whenever  (as  I  sometimes  think  he  will,  after  he  has 
closed  this  book)  he  conjures  up  the  idea  he  attaches  to  the 
name  of  its  heroine,  let  him  see  before  her,  as  she  glides 
through  the  humble  room;  as  she  listens  to  the  voice  of  him 
she  loves;  as  she  sits  musing  by  the  window,  with  the  church 
spire  just  visible;  as  day  by  day  the  soul  brightens  and  ex- 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  503 

pands  within  her,  —  still  let  the  reader  see  within  the  same 
walls,  gray-haired,  blind,  dull  to  all  feeling,  frozen  to  all  life, 
that  stony  image  of  Time  and  Death!  Perhaps  then  he  may 
understand  why  they  who  beheld  the  real  and  living  Fanny 
blooming  under  that  chill  and  mass  of  shadow,  felt  that  her 
grace,  her  simplicity,  her  charming  beauty,  were  raised  by  the 
contrast,  till  they  grew  associated  with  thoughts  and  images, 
mysterious  and  profound,  belonging  not  more  to  the  lovely 
than  to  the  sublime. 

So  there  sat  the  old  man;  and  Philip,  though  aware  of  his 
])resence,  speaking  as  if  he  were  alone  with  Fanny,  after 
touching  on  more  casual  topics,  thus  addressed  her,  — 

"  My  true  and  my  dear  friend,  it  is  to  you  that  I  shall  owe, 
not  only  my  rights  and  fortune,  but  the  vindication  of  my 
mother's  memory.  You  have  not  only  placed  flowers  upon 
that  gravestone,  but  it  is  owing  to  you,  under  Providence, 
that  it  will  be  inscribed  at  last  with  the  Name  which  refutes 
all  calumny.  Young  and  innocent  as  you  now  are,  my  gentle 
and  beloved  benefactress,  you  cannot  as  yet  know  what  a  bless- 
ing it  will  be  to  me  to  engrave  that  Name  upon  that  simple 
stone.  Hereafter,  when  you  yourself  are  a  wife,  a  mother, 
you  will  comprehend  the  service  you  have  rendered  to  the  liv- 
ing and  the  dead!  " 

He  stopped,  struggling  with  the  rush  of  emotions  that  over- 
flowed his  heart.  Alas,  the  Dead  !  what  service  can  we  ren- 
der to  them?  What  availed  it  now,  either  to  the  dust  below 
or  to  the  immortality  above,  that  the  fools  and  knaves  of  this 
world  should  mention  the  Catherine  whose  life  was  gone, 
whose  ears  were  deaf,  with  more  or  less  respect?  There  is 
in  calumny  that  poison  that,  even  when  the  character  throws 
off  the  slander,  the  heart  remains  diseased  beneath  the  effect. 
They  say  that  truth  comes  sooner  or  later ;  but  it  seldom  comes 
before  the  soul,  passing  from  agony  to  contempt,  has  grown 
callous  to  men's  judgments.  Calumniate  a  human  being  in 
youth,  — adulate  that  being  in  age;  what  has  been  the  inter- 
val? Will  the  adulation  atone  either  for  the  torture,  or  the 
hardness  which  the  torture  leaves  at  last?  And  if,  as  in 
Catherine's  case  (a  case  how  common!),  the  truth  come  too 


504  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

late,  if  the  tomb  is  closed,  if  the  heart  you  have  wrung  can  be 
wrung  no  more,  —  why,  the  truth  is  as  valueless  as  the  epi- 
taph on  a  forgotten  Name !  Some  such  conviction  of  the  hol- 
lowness  of  his  own  words,  when  he  spoke  of  service  to  the 
dead,  smote  upon  Philip's  heart,  and  stopped  the  flow  of  his 
words. 

Fanny,  conscious  only  of  his  praise,  his  thanks,  and  the 
tender  affection  of  his  voice,  stood  still  silent,  her  eyes  down- 
cast, her  breast  heaving. 

Philip  resumed,  — 

"  And  now,  Fanny,  my  honoured  sister,  I  would  thank  you 
for  more,  were  it  possible,  even  than  this.  I  shall  owe  to 
you  not  only  name  and  fortune,  but  happiness.  It  is  from 
the  rights  to  which  you  have  assisted  me,  and  which  will 
shortly  be  made  clear,  that  I  am  able  to  demand  a  hand  1 
have  so  long  coveted,  —  the  hand  of  one  as  dear  to  me  as  you 
are.  In  a  word,  the  time  has  this  day  been  fixed,  when  I 
shall  have  a  home  to  offer  to  you  and  to  this  old  man,  when 
I  can  present  to  you  a  sister  who  will  prize  you  as  I  do,  — for 
I  love  you  so  dearly  —  I  owe  you  so  much  —  that  even  that 
home  would  lose  half  its  smiles  if  you  were  not  there.  Do 
you  understand  me,  Fanny?  The  sister  I  speak  of  will  be  my 
wife ! " 

The  poor  girl,  who  heard  this  speech  of  most  cruel  tender- 
ness, did  not  fall  or  faint  or  evince  any  outward  emotion, 
except  in  a  deadly  paleness.  She  seemed  like  one  turned  to 
stone.  Her  very  breath  forsook  her  for  some  moments,  and 
then  came  back  with  a  long  deep  sigh.  She  laid  her  hand 
lightly  on  his  arm,  and  said  calmly,  — 

"  Yes,  I  understand.  We  once  saw  a  wedding.  You  are  to 
be  married ;  I  shall  see  yours  !  " 

"You  shall;  and  later,  perhaps,  I  may  see  your  own.  T 
have  a  brother.  Ah!  if  I  could  but  find  him  — younger  than 
I  am  —  beautiful  almost  as  you!  " 

"You  will  be  happy,"  said  Fanny,  still  calmly. 

"I  have  long  placed  my  hopes  of  happiness  in  such  a  union! 
Stay,  where  are  you  going?  " 

"To  pray  for  you,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  smile  in  which  there 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  505 

was  something  of  the  old  vacancy,  as  she  walked  gently  from 
the  room.  Philip  followed  her  with  moistened  eyes.  Her 
manner  might  have  deceived  one  more  vain.  He  soon  after 
quitted  the  house,  and  returned  to  town. 

Three  hours  after,  Sarah  found  Fanny  stretched  on  the 
floor  of  her  own  room,  so  still,  so  white,  that  for  some  mo- 
ments the  old  woman  thought  life  was  gone.  She  recovered, 
however,  by  degrees;  and  after  putting  her  hands  to  her  eyes, 
and  muttering  some  moments,  seemed  much  as  usual,  except 
that  she  was  more  silent,  and  that  her  lips  remained  colour- 
less, and  her  hands  cold  like  stone. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

Vec.    Ye  see  what  follows. 

Duke.    O  gentle  sir  !  this  shape  again  !  —  The  Chances. 

That  evening  Sidney  Beaufort  arrived  in  London.  It  is 
the  nature  of  solitude  to  make  passions  calm  on  the  surface 
agitated  in  the  deeps.  Sidney  had  placed  his  whole  existence 
in  one  object.  When  the  letter  arrived  that  told  him  to  hope 
no  more,  he  was  at  first  rather  sensible  of  the  terrible  and 
dismal  blank,  the  "  void  abyss, "  to  which  all  his  future  was 
suddenly  changed  than  roused  to  vehement  and  turbulent 
emotion.  But  Camilla's  letter  had,  as  we  have  seen,  raised 
his  courage  and  animated  his  heart.  To  the  idea  of  her  faith 
he  still  clung  with  the  instinct  of  hope  in  the  midst  of  de- 
spair. The  tidings  that  she  was  absolutely  betrothed  to  an- 
other, and  in  so  short  a  time  since  her  rejection  of  him,  let 
loose  from  all  restraint  his  darker  and  more  tempestuous 
passions.  In  a  state  of  mind  bordering  upon  frenzy  he  hur- 
ried to  London,  to  seek  her,  to  see  her, —  with  what  intent, 
what  hope,  if  hope  there  were,  he  himself  could  scarcely  tell. 
But  what  man  who  has  loved  with  fervour  and  trust  will  be 
contented  to  receive  the  sentence  of  eternal  separation  ex- 


506  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

cept  from  the  very  lips  of  the  one  thus  worshipped  and  thus 
foresworn? 

The  day  had  been  intensely  cold.  Towards  evening  the 
snow  fell  fast  and  heavily.  Sidney  had  not,  since  a  child, 
been  before  in  London;  and  the  immense  city,  covered  with 
a  wintry  and  icy  mist,  through  which  the  hurrying  passen- 
gers and  the  slow-moving  vehicles  passed,  spectre-like,  along 
the  dismal  and  slippery  streets  opened,  to  the  stranger  no 
hospitable  arms.  He  knew  not  a  step  of  the  way;  he  was 
pushed  to  and  fro,  his  scarce  intelligible  questions  impa- 
tiently answered;  the  snow  covered  him,  the  frost  pierced  to 
his  veins.  At  length  a  man,  more  kindly  than  the  rest,  see- 
ing that  he  was  a  stranger  to  London,  procured  him  a  hack- 
ney-coach, and  directed  the  driver  to  the  distant  quarter  of 
Berkeley  Square.  The  snow  balled  under  the  hoofs  of  the 
horses,  the  groaning  vehicle  proceeded  at  the  pace  of  a  hearse. 
At  length,  and  after  a  period  of  such  suspense  and  such  emo- 
tion as  Sidney  never  in  after-life  could  recall  without  a  shud- 
der, the  coach  stopped,  the  benumbed  driver  heavily  descended, 
the  sound  of  the  knocker  knelled  loud  through  the  muffled  air, 
and  the  light  from  Mr.  Beaufort's  hall  glared  full  upon  the 
dizzy  eyes  of  the  visitor.  He  pushed  aside  the  porter,  and 
sprang  into  the  hall.  Luckily,  one  of  the  footmen  who  had 
attended  Mrs.  Beaufort  to  the  Lakes  recognized  him,  and  in 
answer  to  his  breathless  inquiry,  said, — 

"Why,  indeed,  Mr.  Spencer,  Miss  Beaufort  is  at  home  — 
upstairs  in  the  drawing-room  with  master  and  mistress  and 
M.  de  Vaudemont ;  but  —  " 

Sidney  waited  for  no  more.  He  bounded  up  the  stairs,  he 
opened  the  first  door  that  presented  itself  to  him,  and  burst, 
unannounced  and  unlooked  for,  upon  the  eyes  of  the  group 
seated  within.  He  saw  not  the  terrified  start  of  Mr.  Robert 
Beaufort;  he  heeded  not  the  faint,  nervous  exclamation  of 
the  mother;  he  caught  not  the  dark  and  wondering  glance  of 
the  stranger  seated  beside  Camilla.  He  saw  but  Camilla  her- 
self, and  in  a  moment  he  was  at  her  feet. 

"Camilla,  I  am  here!  I  who  love  you  so, —  I  who  have 
nothing  in  the  world  but  you!     I  am  here  to  learn  from  you, 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  607 

and  you  alone,  if  I  am  indeed  abandoned, —  if  you  are  indeed 
to  be  another's!  " 

He  had  dashed  his  hat  from  his  brow  as  he  sprang  forward; 
his  long  fair  hair,  damp  with  the  snows,  fell  disordered  over 
his  forehead;  his  eyes  were  fixed,  as  for  life  and  death,  upon 
the  pale  face  and  trembling  lips  of  Camilla,  Robert  Beaufort, 
in  great  alarm,  and  well  aware  of  the  fierce  temper  of  Philip, 
anticipative  of  some  rash  and  violent  impulse,  turned  his 
glance  upon  his  destined  son-in-law;  but  there  was  no  angry 
pride  in  the  countenance  he  there  beheld.  Philip  had  risen, 
but  his  frame  was  bent,  his  knees  knocked  together,  his  lips 
were  parted,  his  eyes  were  staring  full  upon  the  face  of  the 
kneeling  man. 

Suddenly  Camilla,  sharing  her  father's  fear,  herself  half 
rose,  and  with  an  unconscious  pathos  stretched  one  hand,  as 
if  to  shelter,  over  Sidney's  head,  and  looked  to  Philip. 
Sidney's  eyes  followed  hers.     He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  What,  then,  it  is  true !  And  this  is  the  man  for  whom  I 
am  abandoned!  But  unless  you  —  you,  with  your  own  lips, 
tell.me  that  you  love  me  no  more  —  that  you  love  another  —  I 
will  not  yield  you  but  with  life." 

He  stalked  sternly  and  impetuously  up  to  Philip,  who  re- 
coiled as  his  rival  advanced.  The  characters  of  the  two  men 
seemed  suddenly  changed.  The  timid  dreamer  seemed  dilated 
into  the  fearless  soldier;  the  soldier  seemed  shrinking,  quail- 
ing, into  nameless  terror.  Sidney  grasped  that  strong  arm, 
as  Philip  still  retreated,  with  his  slight  and  delicate  fingers, 
—  grasped  it  with  violence  and  menace ;  and  frowning  into 
the  face  from  which  the  swarthy  blood  was  scared  away,  he 
said,  in  a  hollow  whisper, — 

"Do  you  hear  me?  Do  you  comprehend  me?  I  say  that 
she  shall  not  be  forced  into  a  marriage  at  which  I  yet  be- 
lieve her  heart  rebels.  My  claim  is  holier  than  yours. 
Renounce  her,  or  win  her  but  with  my  blood." 

Philip  did  not  apparently  hear  the  words  thus  addressed  to 
him.  His  whole  senses  seemed  absorbed  in  the  one  sense  of 
sight.  He  continued  to  gaze  upon  the  speaker  till  his  eye 
dropped  on  the  hand  that  yet  griped  his  arm ;  and  as  he  thus 


508  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

looked,  he  uttered  an  inarticulate  cry.  He  caught  the  hand 
in  his  own  and  pointed  to  a  ring  on  the  finger,  but  remained 
speechless.  Mr.  Beaufort  approached,  and  began  some  stam- 
mered words  of  soothing  to  Sidney;  but  Philip  motioned  him 
to  be  silent,  and  at  last,  as  if  by  a  violent  effort,  gasped  forth, 
not  to  Sidney  but  to  Beaufort, — 

"His  name?  —  his  name?" 

"It  is  Mr.  Spencer,  —  Mr.  Charles  Spencer,"  cried  Beaufort. 

"Listen  to  me,  I  will  explain  all;  I — " 

"Hush,  hush!"  cried  Philip;  and  turning  to  Sidney  he 
put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  looking  him  full  in  the 
face,  said, — 

"Have  you  not  known  another  name?  Are  you  not  — 
Yes,  it  is  so  —  it  is  —  it  is !     Follow  me  —  follow !  " 

And  still  retaining  his  grasp,  and  leading  Sidney,  who  was 
now  subdued,  awed,  and  a  prey  to  new  and  wild  suspicions, 
he  moved  on  gently,  stride  by  stride,  his  eyes  fixed  on  that 
fair  face,  his  lips  muttering,  till  the  closing  door  shut  both 
forms  from  the  eyes  of  the  three  there  left. 

It  was  the  adjoining  room  into  which  Philip  led  his  rival. 
It  Avas  lit  but  by  a  small  reading  lamp,  and  the  bright,  steady 
blaze  of  the  fire;  and  by  this  light  they  both  continued  to 
gaze  on  each  other,  as  if  spell-bound,  in  complete  silence. 
At  last  Philip,  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  fell  upon  Sidney's 
bosom,  and  clasping  him  with  convulsive  energy,  gasped 
out, — 

"  Sidney !     Sidney !  —  my  mother's  son !  " 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Sidney,  struggling  from  the  embrace, 
and  at  last  freeing  himself;  "it  is  you,  then!  — you,  my  own 
brother !  You,  who  have  been  hitherto  the  thorn  in  my  path, 
the  cloud  in  my  fate !  You,  who  are  now  come  to  make  me  a 
wretch  for  life !  I  love  that  woman,  and  you  tear  her  from 
me!  You,  who  subjected  my  infancy  to  hardship,  and  but 
for  Providence  might  have  degraded  my  youth,  by  your 
example,   into  shame  and  guilt!  " 

"Forbear!  forbear!  "  cried  Philip,  with  a  voice  so  shrill  in 
its  agony  that  it  smote  the  hearts  of  those  in  the  adjoining 
chamber  like  the  shriek  of  some  despairing  soul.    They  looked 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  509 

at  each  other,  but  not  one  had  the  courage  to  break  upon  the 
interview, 

Sidney  himself  was  appalled  by  the  sound.  He  threw  him- 
self on  a  seat,  and  overcome  by  passions  so  new  to  him,  by 
excitement  so  strange,  hid  his  face,  and  sobbed  as  a  child, 

Philip  walked  rapidly  to  and  fro  the  room  for  some  mo- 
ments; at  length  he  paused  opposite  to  Sidney,  and  said, 
with  the  deep  calmness  of  a  wronged  and  goaded  spirit, — 

"Sidney  Beaufort,  hear  me!  When  my  mother  died  she 
confided  you  to  my  care,  my  love,  and  my  protection.  In  the 
last  lines  that  her  hand  traced  she  bade  me  think  less  of  my- 
self than  of  you;  to  be  to  you  as  a  father  as  well  as  brother. 
The  hour  that  I  read  that  letter  I  fell  on  my  knees,  and  voAved 
that  I  would  fulfil  that  injunction, —  that  I  would  sacrifice 
my  very  self,  if  I  could  give  fortune  or  happiness  to  you. 
And  this  not  for  your  sake  alone,  Sidney;  no!  but  as  my 
mother  —  our  wronged,  our  belied,  our  broken-hearted  mother! 
Oh,  Sidney,  Sidney!  have  you  no  tears  for  her,  too?"  He 
passed  his  hand  over  his  own  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  re- 
sumed—  "but  as  our  mother  in  that  last  letter  said  to  me, 
*let  my  love  pass  into  your  breast  for  him,'  so,  Sidney,  so  in 
all  that  I  could  do  for  you  I  fancied  that  my  mother's  smile 
looked  down  upon  me,  and  that  in  serving  you  it  was  my 
mother  whom  I  obeyed.  Perhaps  hereafter,  Sidney,  when  we 
talk  over  that  period  of  my  earlier  life,  when  I  worked  for 
you,  when  the  degradation  you  speak  of  (there  was  no  crime 
in  it!)  was  borne  cheerfully  for  your  sake,  and  yours  the  holi- 
day though  mine  the  task, —  perhaps  hereafter  you  will  do 
me  more  justice.  You  left  me,  or  were  reft  from  me;  and  I 
gave  all  the  little  fortune  that  my  mother  had  bequeathed  us 
to  get  some  tidings  from  you,  I  received  your  letter, — that 
bitter  letter, —  and  I  cared  not  then  that  I  was  a  beggar,  since 
I  was  alone.  You  talk  of  what  I  have  cost  you  —  you  talk! 
And  you  now  ask  me  to  —  to —  Merciful  Heaven!  let  me 
understand  you.  Do  you  love  Camilla?  Does  she  love  you? 
Speak  —  speak — explain  —  what  new  agony  awaits  me?" 

It  was  then  that  Sidney,  affected  and  humbled  amidst  all 
his  more  selfish  sorrows  by  his  brother's  language  and  man- 


510  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

ner,  related,  as  succinctly  as  he  could,  the  history  of  his  affec- 
tion for  Camilla,  the  circumstances  of  their  engagement,  and 
ended  by  placing  before  him  the  letter  he  had  received  from 
Mr.  Beaufort. 

In  spite  of  all  his  efforts  for  self-control,  Philip's  anguish 
was  so  great,  so  visible,  that  Sidney,  after  looking  at  his 
working  features,  his  trembling  hands,  for  a  moment,  felt 
all  the  earlier  parts  of  his  nature  melt  in  a  flow  of  generous 
sympathy  and  remorse.  He  flung  himself  on  the  breast  from 
which  he  had  shrunk  before,  and  cried, — 

'^  Brother,  brother !  forgive  me ;  I  see  hoAv  I  have  wronged 
you.  If  she  has  forgotten  me,  if  she  love  you,  take  her  and 
be  happy ! " 

Philip  returned  his  embrace,  but  without  warmth,  and  then 
moved  away;  and,  again,  in  great  disorder,  paced  the  room. 
His  brother  only  heard  disjointed  exclamations  that  seemed 
to  escape  him  unawares :  "  They  said  she  loved  vie  !  Heaven 
give  me  strength!  Mother,  Mother,  let  me  fulfil  my  vow! 
Oh,  that  I  had  died  ere  this ! "  He  stopped  at  last,  and  the 
large  dews  rolled  down  his  forehead. 

"Sidney,"  said  he,  ''there  is  a  mystery  here  that  I  compre- 
hend not;  but  my  mind  now  is  very  Confused.     If  she  loves 

you if!     Is  it  possible  for  a  woman  to  love  tico?     Well, 

well,  I  go  to  solve  the  riddle :  wait  here ! " 

He  vanished  into  the  next  room,  and  for  nearly  half  an 
hour  Sidney  was  alone.  He  heard  through  the  partition  mur- 
mured voices ;  he  caught  more  clearly  the  sound  of  Camilla's 
sobs.  The  particulars  of  that  interview  between  Philip  and 
Camilla,  alone  at  first  (afterwards  Mr.  Kobert  Beaufort  was 
re-admitted),  Philip  never  disclosed;  nor  could  Sidney  him- 
self ever  obtain  a  clear  account  from  Camilla,  who  could  not 
recall  it,  even  years  after,  without  great  emotion.  But  at  last 
the  door  was  opened,  and  Philip  entered,  leading  Camilla  by 
the  hand.  His  face  was  calm,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  his 
lips;  a  greater  dignity  than  even  that  habitual  to  him  was 
diffused  over  his  whole  person.  Camilla  was  holding  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  weeping  passionately.  Mr. 
Beaufort  followed  them  with  a  mortified  and  slinking  air. 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  511 

"Sidney,"  said  Philip,  "it  is  past.  All  is  arranged.  I 
yield  to  your  earlier,  and  therefore  better,  claim.  Mr. 
Beaufort  consents  to  your  union.  He  will  tell  you,  at  some 
fitter  time,  that  our  birthright  is  at  last  made  clear,  and  that 
there  is  no  blot  on  the  name  we  shall  hereafter  bear.  Sidney, 
embrace  your  bride !  " 

Amazed,  delighted,  and  still  half  incredulous,  Sidney  seized 
and  kissed  the  hand  of  Camilla;  and  as  he  then  drew  her  to 
his  breast,  she  said,  as  she  pointed  to  Philip,— 

"Oh,  if  you  do  love  me  as  you  say,  see  in  him  the  generous, 
the  noble  —  "  Fresh  sobs  broke  off  her  speech,  but  as  Sidney 
sought  again  to  take  her  hand,  she  whispered,  with  a  touch- 
ing and  womanly  sentiment,  "Ah,  respect /ii??i  .■  see!"  And 
Sidney,  looking  then  at  his  brother,  saw  that  though  he  still 
attempted  to  smile,  his  lip  writhed,  and  his  features  were 
drawn  together,  as  one  whose  frame  is  wrung  by  torture  but 
who  struggles  not  to  groan. 

He  flew  to  Philip,  who,  grasping  his  hand,  held  him  back, 
and  said, — 

"  1  have  fulfilled  my  vow !  I  have  given  you  up  the  only 
blessing  my  life  has  known.  Enough,  you  are  happy;  and  1 
shall  be  so  too,  when  God  pleases  to  soften  this  blow.  And 
now  you  must  not  wonder  or  blame  me,  if,  though  so  lately 
found,  I  leave  you  for  a  while.  Do  me  one  kindness,  —  you, 
Sidney —  you,  Mr.  Beaufort.     Let  the  marriage  take  place  at 

H ,  in   the  village  church   by  which  my  mother  sleeps. 

Let  it  be  delayed  till  the  suit  is  terminated;  by  that  time  I 
shall  hope  to  meet  you  all, —  to  meet  you,  Camilla,  as  I  ought 
to  meet  my  brother's  wife.  Till  then,  my  presence  will  not 
sadden  your  happiness.  Do  not  seek  to  see  me;  do  not  ex- 
pect to  hear  from  me.  Hist!  be  silent,  all  of  you;  my  heart 
is  yet  bruised  and  sore.  0  Thou,"  and  here,  deepening  his 
voice,  he  raised  his  arms,  "Thou  who  hast  preserved  my 
youth  from  such  snares  and  such  peril,  who  hast  guided  my 
steps  from  the  abyss  to  which  they  wandered,  and  beneath 
whose  hand  I  now  bow,  grateful  if  chastened,  receive  this 
offering,  and  bless  that  union !     Fare  ye  well  1 " 


512  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

Heaven's  airs  amid  the  harpstrings  dwell, 

And  we  wish  they  ne'er  may  fade. 
They  cease  ;  and  the  soul  is  a  silent  cell, 

Where  music  never  played. 
Dream  follows  di-eara  through  the  long  nijjht-houra. 

Wilson  :    The  Past,  a  Poem. 


The  self-command  which  Philip  had  obtained  for  a  while 
deserted  him  when  he  was  without  the  house.  His  mind  felt 
broken  up  into  chaos.  He  hurried  on,  mechanically,  on  foot; 
he  passed  street  upon  street,  now  solitary  and  deserted,  as 
the  lamps  gleamed  upon  the  thick  snow.  The  city  was  left 
behind  him.  He  paused  not,  till,  breathless,  and  exhausted 
in  spirit  if  not  in  frame,  he  reached  the  churchyard  where 
Catherine's  dust  reposed.  The  snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  but 
it  lay  deep  over  the  graves ;  the  yew-trees,  clad  in  their  white 
shrouds,  gleamed  ghost-like  through  the  dimness.  Upon  the 
rail  that  fenced  the  tomb  yet  hung  a  wreath  that  Fanny's  hand 
had  placed  there;  but  the  flowers  were  hid:  it  was  a  wreath 
of  snow!  Through  the  intervals  of  the  huge  and  still  clouds 
there  gleamed  a  few  melancholy  stars.  The  very  calm  of  the 
holy  spot  seemed  unutterably  sad.  The  Death  of  the  year 
overhung  the  Death  of  man;  and  as  Philip  bent  over  the 
tomb,  within  and  without  all  was  Ice  and  Night! 

For  hours  he  remained  on  that  spot,  alone  with  his  grief 
and  ab.sorbed  in  his  prayer.  Long  past  midnight  Fanny 
heard  his  step  on  the  stairs,  and  the  door  of  his  chamber  close 
with  unwonted  violence.  She  heard,  too,  for  some  time,  his 
heavy  tread  on  the  floor,  till  suddenly  all  was  silent.  The 
next  morning,  when,  at  the  usual  hour,  Sarah  entered  to  un- 
close the  shutters  and  light  the  fire,  she  was  startled  by  wild 
exclamations  and  wilder  laughter:  the  fever  had  mounted  to 
the  brain;  he  was  delirious. 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  513 

For  several  weeks  Philip  Beaufort  was  in  imminent  danger. 
For  a  considerable  part  of  that  time  he  was  unconscious ;  and 
when  the  peril  was  past,  his  recovery  was  slow  and  gradual. 
It  was  the  only  illness  to  which  his  vigorous  frame  had  ever 
been  subjected,  and  the  fever  had  perhaps  exhausted  him 
more  than  it  might  have  done  one  in  whose  constitution  the 
disease  had  encountered  less  resistance.  His  brother,  imag- 
ining he  had  gone  abroad,  was  unacquainted  with  his  danger. 
None  tended  his  sick-bed  save  the  hireling  nurse,  the  feed 
physician,  and  the  unpurchaseable  heart  of  the  only  being  to 
whom  the  wealth  and  rank  of  the  Heir  of  Beaufort  Court 
were  as  nothing.  Here  was  reserved  for  him  Fate's  crowning 
lesson,  in  the  vanity  of  those  human  wishes  which  anchor  in 
gold  and  power.  For  how  many  years  had  the  exile  and  the 
outcast  pined  indignantly  for  his  birthright?  Lo!  it  was 
won:  and  with  it  came  the  crushed  heart  and  the  smitten 
frame.  As  he  slowly  recovered  sense  and  reasoning,  these 
thoughts  struck  him  forcibly.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  rightly 
punished  in  having  disdained,  during  his  earlier  youth,  the 
enjoyments  within  his  reach.  Was  there  nothing  in  the 
glorious  health,  the  unconquerable  hope,  the  heart,  if  wrung 
and  chafed  and  sorely  tried,  free  at  least  from  the  direst  an- 
guish of  the  passions, — disappointed  and  jealous  love?  Though 
now  certain,  if  spared  to  the  future,  to  be  rich,  powerful, 
righted  in  name  and  honour,  might  he  not  from  that  sick-bed 
envy  his  earlier  past?  —  even  when  with  his  brother  orphan 
he  wandered  through  the  solitary  fields,  and  felt  with  what 
energies  we  are  gifted  when  we  have  something  to  protect; 
or  when,  loving  and  beloved,  he  saw  life  smile  out  to  him  in 
the  eyes  of  Eugenie ;  or  when,  after  that  melancholy  loss,  he 
wrestled  boldly  and  breast  to  breast  with  Fortune,  in  a  far 
land,  for  honour  and  independence?  There  is  something  in 
severe  illness,  especially  if  it  be  in  violent  contrast  to  the 
usual  strength  of  the  body,  which  has  often  the  most  salu- 
tary effect  upon  the  mind;  which  often,  by  the  affliction  of 
the  frame,  roughly  wins  us  from  the  too  morbid  pains  of  the 
heart;  which  makes  us  feel  that  in  mere  life,  enjoyed  as  the 
robust  enjoy  it,  God's  Great  Principle  of  Good  breathes  and 

33 


514  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

moves.  We  rise  thus  from  the  sick-bed  softened  and  hum- 
bled, and  more  disposed  to  look  around  us  for  such  blessings 
as  we  may  yet  command. 

The  return  of  Philip,  his  danger,  the  necessity  of  exertion, 
of  tending  him,  had  roused  Fanny  from  a  state  which  might 
otherwise  have  been  permanently  dangerous  to  the  intellect 
so  lately  ripened  within  her.  With  what  patience,  with 
what  fortitude,  with  what  unutterable  thought  and  devotion, 
she  fulfilled  that  best  and  holiest  woman's  duty,  let  the  man 
whose  struggle  with  life  and  death  has  been  blessed  with  the 
vigil  that  wakes  and  saves  imagine  to  himself.  And  in  all 
her  anxiety  and  terror  she  had  glimpses  of  a  happiness  which 
it  seemed  to  her  almost  criminal  to  acknowledge;  for,  even  in 
his  delirium,  her  voice  seemed  to  have  some  soothing  influence 
over  him,  and  he  was  calmer  while  she  was  by.  And  when 
at  last  he  was  conscious,  her  face  was  the  first  he  saw,  and 
her  name  the  first  which  his  lips  uttered.  As  then  he  grew 
gradually  stronger,  and  the  bed  was  deserted  for  the  sofa,  he 
took  more  than  the  old  pleasure  in  hearing  her  read  to  him, 
which  she  did  with  a  feeling  that  lecturers  cannot  teach. 
And  once,  in  a  pause  from  this  occupation,  he  spoke  to  her 
frankly;  he  sketched  his  past  history,  his  last  sacrifice.  And 
Fanny,  as  she  wept,  learned  that  he  was  no  more  another's ! 

It  has  been  said  that  this  man,  naturally  of  an  active  and 
impatient  temperament,  had  been  little  accustomed  to  seek 
those  resources  which  are  found  in  books;  but  somehow  in 
that  sick  chamber  it  was  Fanny's  voice, —  the  voice  of  her 
over  whose  mind  he  had  once  so  haughtily  lamented, —  that 
taught  him  how  much  of  aid  and  solace  the  Herd  of  Men 
derive  from  the  Everlasting  Genius  of  the  Few. 

Gradually,  and  interval  by  interval,  moment  b}^  moment, 
thus  drawn  together,  all  thought  beyond  shut  out  (for,  how- 
ever crushing  for  the  time  the  blow  that  had  stricken  Philip 
from  health  and  reason,  he  was  not  that  slave  to  a  guilty 
fancy  that  he  could  voluntarily  indulge  —  that  he  would  not 
earnestly  seek  to  shun  —  all  sentiments  that  yet  turned  with 
unholy  yearning  towards  the  betrothed  of  his  brother), — 
gradually,  I  say,  and  slowly,  came  those  progressive  and  de- 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  615 

licious  epochs  which  mark  a  revolution  in  the  affections. 
Unspeakable  gratitude,  brotherly  tenderness,  the  united 
strength  of  compassion  and  respect  that  he  had  felt  for  Fanny 
seemed,  as  he  gained  health,  to  mellow  into  feelings  yet 
more  exquisite  and  deep.  He  could  no  longer  delude  himself 
with  a  vain  and  imperious  belief  that  it  was  a  defective  mind 
that  his  heart  protected;  he  began  again  to  be  sensible  to  the 
rare  beauty  of  that  tender  face, — more  lovely,  perhaps,  for 
the  paleness  that  had  replaced  its  bloom.  The  fancy  that  he 
had  so  imperiously  checked  before  —  before  he  saw  Camilla 
—  returned  to  him,  and  neither  pride  nor  honour  had  now  the 
right  to  chase  the  soft  wings  away.  One  evening,  fancying 
himself  alone,  he  fell  into  a  profound  revery ;  he  awoke  with 
a  start,  and  the  exclamation,  "  Was  it  true  love  that  I  ever 
felt  for  Camilla,  or  a  passion,  a  frenzy,  a  delusion?  " 

His  exclamation  was  answered  by  a  sound  that  seemed  both 
of  joy  and  grief.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  Fanny  before  him; 
the  light  of  the  moon,  just  risen,  fell  full  on  her  form,  but 
her  hands  were  clasped  before  her  face ;  he  heard  her  sob. 

"Fanny,  dear  Fanny!"  he  cried,  and  sought  to  throw  him- 
self from  the  sofa  to  her  feet;  but  she  drew  herself  away,  and 
fled  from  the  chamber  silent  as  a  dream. 

Philip  rose,  and  for  the  first  time  since  his  illness,  walked, 
but  with  feeble  steps,  to  and  fro  the  room.  With  what  differ- 
ent emotions  from  those  in  which  last,  in  fierce  and  intolera- 
ble agony,  he  had  paced  that  narrow  boundary!  Returning 
health  crept  through  his  veins;  a  serene,  a  kindly,  a  celes- 
tial joy  circumfused  his  heart.  Had  the  time  yet  come  when 
the  old  Florimel  had  melted  into  snow;  when  the  new  and 
the  true  one,  with  its  warm  life,  its  tender  beauty,  its  maiden 
wealth  of  love,  had  risen  before  his  hopes?  He  paused  before 
the  window;  the  spot  within  seemed  so  confined,  the  night 
without  so  calm  and  lovely,  that  he  forgot  his  still-clinging 
malady,  and  unclosed  the  casement.  The  air  came  soft  and 
fresh  upon  his  temples,  and  the  church-tower  and  spire,  for 
the  first  time,  did  not  seem  to  him  to  rise  in  gloom  against 
the  heavens.  Even  the  gravestone  of  Catherine,  half  in 
moonlight,  half  in  shadow,  appeared  to  him  to  wear  a  smile. 


516  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

His  mother's  memory  was  become  linked  with  the  living 
Fanny. 

"Thou  art  vindicated,  thy  Sidney  is  happy,"  he  murmured; 
"to  fier  the  thanks!" 

Fair  hopes  and  soft  thoughts  busy  within  him,  he  remained 
at  the  casement  till  the  increasing  chill  warned  him  of  the 
danger  he  incurred. 

The  next  day,  when  the  physician  visited  him,  he  found 
the  fever  had  returned.  For  many  days  Philip  was  again  in 
danger, —  dull,  unconscious  even  of  the  step  and  voice  of 
Fanny. 

He  woke  at  last  as  from  a  long  and  profound  sleep, —  woke 
so  refreshed,  so  revived,  that  he  felt  at  once  that  some  great 
crisis  had  been  passed,  and  that  at  length  he  had  struggled 
back  to  the  sunny  shores  of  Life. 

By  his  bedside  sat  Liancourt,  who,  long  alarmed  at  his  dis- 
appearance, had  at  last  contrived,  with  the  help  of  Mt. 
Barlow,  to  trace  him  to  Gawtrey's  house,  and  had  for  several 
days  taken  share  in  the  vigils  of  poor  Fann3\ 

While  he  was  yet  explaining  all  this  to  Philip,  and  con- 
gratulating him  on  his  evident  recovery,  the  physician  entered 
to  confirm  the  congratulation.  In  a  few  days  the  invalid  was 
able  to  quit  his  room,  and  nothing  but  change  of  air  seemed 
necessary  for  his  convalescence.  It  was  then  that  Liancourt, 
who  had  for  two  days  seemed  impatient  to  unburden  himself 
of  some  communication,  thus  addressed  him, — 

"My  dear  friend,  I  have  learned  now  your  story  from 
Barlow,  who  called  several  times  during  j^our  relapse,  and 
who  is  the  more  anxious  about  you,  as  the  time  for  the  deci- 
sion of  your  case  now  draws  near.  The  sooner  you  quit  this 
house  the  better." 

"Quit  this  house!  and  why?  Is  there  not  one  in  this  house 
to  whom  I  owe  my  fortune  and  my  life?  " 

"Yes;  and  for  that  reason  I  say,  *Go  hence.'  It  is  the  only 
return  you  can  make  her." 

"Pshaw!  speak  intelligibly." 

"I  will,"  said  Liancourt,  gravely.  "I  have  been  a  watcher 
with  her  by  your  sick-bed,  and  I  know  what  you  must  feel  al- 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  617 

ready;  nay,  I  must  confess  that  even  the  old  servant  has  ven- 
tured to  speak  to  me.  You  have  inspired  that  poor  girl  with 
feelings  dangerous  to  her  peace." 

"lia!  "  cried  Philip,  with  such  joy  that  Liancourt  frowned, 
and  said,  "  Hitherto  I  have  believed  you  too  honourable  to  —  " 

"So  you  think  she  loves  me?  "  interrupted  Philip. 

"Yes;  what  then?  You,  the  heir  of  Beaufort  Court,  of  a 
rental  of  £20,000  a  year,  of  an  historical  name,  — you  cannot 
marry  this  poor  girl?  " 

"Well!  I  will  consider  what  you  say,  and,  at  all  events, 
I  will  leave  the  house  to  attend  the  result  of  the  trial.  Let 
us  talk  no  more  on  the  subject  now." 

Philip  had  the  penetration  to  perceive  that  Liancourt,  who 
was  greatly  moved  by  the  beauty,  the  innocence,  and  the  un- 
protected position  of  Fanny,  had  not  confined  caution  to  him- 
self; that  with  his  characteristic  well-meaning  bluntness, 
and  with  the  license  of  a  man  somewhat  advanced  in  years, 
he  had  spoken  to  Fanny  herself.  For  Fanny  now  seemed  to 
shun  Philip, — her  eyes  were  heavy,  her  manner  was  embar- 
rassed. He  saw  the  change,  but  it  did  not  grieve  him;  he 
hailed  the  omens  which  he  drew  from  it. 

And  at  last  he  and  Liancourt  went.  He  was  absent  three 
weeks,  during  which  time  the  formality  of  the  friendly  law- 
suit was  decided  in  the  plaintiff's  favour;  and  the  public 
were  in  ecstasies  at  the  noble  and  sublime  conduct  of  Mr. 
Eobert  Beaufort,  who,  the  moment  he  had  discovered  a  docu- 
ment which  he  might  so  easily  have  buried  forever  in  obliv- 
ion, voluntarily  agreed  to  dispossess  himself  of  estates  he  had 
so  long  enjoyed,  preferring  conscience  to  lucre.  Some  per- 
sons observed  that  it  was  reported  that  Mr.  Philip  Beaufort 
had  also  been  generous,  —  that  he  had  agreed  to  give  up  the 
estates  for  his  uncle's  life,  and  was  only  in  the  meanwhile  to 
receive  a  fourth  of  the  revenues.  But  the  universal  comment 
was,  "  He  could  not  have  done  less !  "  Mr.  Robert  Beaufort 
was,  as  Lord  Lilburne  had  once  observed,  a  man  who  was 
born,  made,  and  reared  to  be  spoken  well  of  by  the  world; 
and  it  was  a  comfort  to  him  now,  poor  man,  to  feel  that  his 
character  was  so  highly  estimated.     If  Philip  should  live  to 


518  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

the  age  of  one  hundred,  he  will  never  become  so  respectable 
and  popular  a  man  with  the  crowd  as  his  worthy  uncle.  But 
does  it  much  matter? 

Philip  returned  to  H the  eve  before  the  day  fixed  for 

the  marriage  of  his  brother  and  Camilla. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HvKrhs  AiQr]pTe  Koi  'H/ie'pa  i^fytvovToA  —  HesioD. 

The   sun  of  early  May  shone   cheerfully  over   the   quiet 

suburb  of  H .     In  the  thoroughfares  life  was  astir.     It 

was  the  hour  of  noon,  — the  hour  at  which  commerce  is  busy, 
and  streets  are  full.  The  old  retired  trader,  eying  wistfully 
the  rolling  coach  or  the  oft-pausing  omnibus,  was  breathing 
the  fresh  and  scented  air  in  the  broadest  and  most  crowded 
road,  from  which,  afar  in  the  distance,  rose  the  spires  of  the 
metropolis ;  the  boy  let  loose  from  the  day-school  was  hurry- 
ing home  to  dinner,  his  satchel  on  his  back;  the  ballad-singer 
was  sending  her  cracked  whine  through  the  obscurer  alleys, 
where  the  baker's  boy  with  puddings  on  his  tray,  and  the 
smart  maid-servant  despatched  for  porter,  paused  to  listen; 
and  round  the  shops  where  cheap  shawls  and  cottons  tempted 
the  female  eye,  many  a  loitering  girl  detained  her  impatient 
mother,  and  eyed  the  tickets  and  calculated  her  hard-gained 
savings  for  the  Sunday  gear;  and  in  the  corners  of  the  streets 
steamed  the  itinerant  kitchens  of  the  pieman,  and  rose  the 
sharp  cry,  "All  hot!  all  hot!"  in  the  ear  of  infant  and  ragged 
hunger;  and  amidst  them  all  rolled  on  some  lazy  coach  of 
ancient  merchant  or  withered  maiden,  unconscious  of  any  life 
but  that  creeping  through  their  own  languid  veins ;  and  before 
the  house  in  which  Catherine  died,  there  loitered  many  strag- 
glers, gossips  of  the  hamlet,  subscribers  to  the  newsroom  hard 

1  "  From  Night,  Sunshine  and  Day  arose  !  " 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  519 

by,  to  guess  and  speculate  and  wonder  why,  from  the  church 
behind,  there  rose  the  merry  peal  of  the  marriage-bell ! 

At  length  along  the  broad  road  leading  from  the  great  city 
there  were  seen  rapidly  advancing  three  carriages  of  a  very 
different  fashion  from  those  familiar  to  the  suburb.  On  they 
came;  swiftly  they  whirled  round  the  angle  that  conducted  to 
the  church,  —  the  hoofs  of  the  gay  steeds  ringing  cheerily  on 
the  ground,  the  white  favours  of  the  servants  gleaming  in  the 
sun.  Happy  is  the  bride  the  sun  shines  on !  And  when  the 
carriages  had  thus  vanished,  the  scattered  groups  melted  into 
one  crowd,  and  took  their  way  to  the  church.  They  stood 
idling  without  in  the  burial-ground,  many  of  them  round  the 
fence  that  guarded  from  their  footsteps  Catherine's  lonely 
grave.  All  in  nature  was  glad,  exhilarating,  and  yet  serene ; 
a  genial  freshness  breathed  through  the  soft  air;  not  a  cloud 
was  to  be  seen  in  the  smiling  azure;  even  the  old  dark  yews 
seemed  happy  in  their  everlasting  verdure.  The  bell  ceased, 
and  then  even  the  crowd  grew  silent;  and  not  a  sound  was 
heard  in  that  solemn  spot  to  whose  demesnes  are  consecrated 
alike  the  Birth,  the  Marriage,  and  the  Death. 

At  length  there  came  forth  from  the  church-door  the  goodly 
form  of  a  rosy  beadle.  Approaching  the  groups,  he  whispered 
the  better-dressed  and  commanded  the  ragged,  remonstrated 
with  the  old  and  lifted  his  cane  against  the  young;  and  the 
result  of  all  was,  that  the  churchyard,  not  without  many  a 
murmur  and  expostulation,  was  cleared,  and  the  crowd  fell 
back  in  the  space  behind  the  gates  of  the  principal  entrance, 
where  they  swayed  and  gaped  and  chattered  round  the  car- 
riages, which  were  to  bear  away  the  bridal  party. 

Within  the  church,  as  the  ceremony  was  now  concluded, 
Philip  Beaufort  conducted,  hand-in-hand,  silently  along  the 
aisle  his  brother's  wife. 

Leaning  on  his  stick,  his  cold  sneer  upon  his  thin  lip,  Lord 
Lilburne  limp^.d,  step  by  step  with  the  pair,  though  a  little 
apart  from  them,  glancing  from  moment  to  moment  at  the 
face  of  Philip  Beaufort,  where  he  had  hoped  to  read  a  grief 
that  he  could  not  detect.  Lord  Lilburne  had  carefully 
refrained  from  an   interview  with  Philip  till  that  day,  and 


520  NIGHT   AND   MORNING. 

he  now  only  came  to  the  wedding  as  a  surgeon  goes  to  an 
hospital,  to  examine  a  disease  he  had  been  told  would  be 
great  and  sore:  he  was  disappointed.  Close  behind  followed 
Sidney,  radiant  with  joy  and  bloom  and  beauty;  and  his  kind 
guardian,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  eyes,  murmured  blessings 
as  he  looked  upon  him.  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  declined  attend- 
ing the  ceremony, — her  nerves  were  too  weak;  but,  behind, 
at  a  longer  interval,  came  Robert  Beaufort,  sober,  staid,  col- 
lected as  ever  to  outward  seeming;  but  a  close  observer  might 
have  seen  that  his  eye  had  lost  its  habitual  complacent  cun- 
ning, that  his  step  was  more  heavy,  his  stoop  more  joyless. 
About  his  air  there  was  a  something  crestfallen.  The  con- 
sciousness of  acres  had  passed  away  from  his  portly  presence ; 
he  was  no  longer  a  possessor,  but  a  pensioner.  The  rich  man, 
who  had  decided  as  he  pleased  on  the  happiness  of  others,  was 
a  cipher;  he  had  ceased  to  have  any  interest  in  anything. 
What  to  him  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  now?  Her  chil- 
dren would  not  be  the  heirs  of  Beaufort.  As  Camilla  kindly 
turned  round,  and  through  happy  tears  waited  for  his  approach 
to  clasp  his  hand,  he  forced  a  smile;  but  it  was  sickly  and 
piteous.     He  longed  to  creep  away,  and  be  alone. 

"My  father!"  said  Camilla,  in  her  sweet  low  voice;  and 
she  extricated  herself  from  Philip,  and  threw  herself  on  his 
breast. 

"She  is  a  good  child,"  said  Robert  Beaufort,  vacantly,  and, 
turning  his  dry  eyes  to  the  group,  he  caught  instinctively  at 
his  customary  commonplaces ;  "  and  a  good  child,  Mr.  Sidney, 
makes  a  good  wife!  " 

The  clergyman  bowed  as  if  the  compliment  were  addressed 
to  himself;  he  was  the  only  man  there  whom  Robert  Beaufort 
could  now  deceive. 

"My  sister,"  said  Philip  Beaufort,  as  once  more  leaning  on 
his  arm,  they  paused  before  the  church-door,  "may  Sidney 
love  and  prize  you  as  —  as  I  would  have  done;  and  believe 
me,  both  of  you,  I  have  no  regret,  no  memory,  that  wounds 
me  now." 

He  dropped  the  hand,  and  motioned  to  her  father  to  lead 
her  to  the  carriage.  Then  winding  his  arm  into  Sidney's,  he 
said,  — 


NIGHT   AND   MORNING.  521 

"  Wait  till  they  are  gone :  I  have  one  word  yet  with  you. 
Go  on,  gentlemen." 

The  clergyman  bowed,  and  walked  through  the  churchyard. 
But  Lilburne,  pausing  and  surveying  Philip  Beaufort,  said  to 
him,  whisperingly,  — 

"  And  so  much  for  feeling,  —  the  folly !  So  much  for  gener- 
osity, —  the  delusion !     Happy  man !  " 

"I  am  thoroughly  happy.  Lord  Lilburne." 
"Are  you?    Then,   it  was  neither  feeling  nor  generosity; 
and  we  were  taken  in!     Good  day."     With  that  he  limped 
slowly  to  the  gate. 

Philip  answered  not  the  sarcasm  even  by  a  look.  For  at 
that  moment  a  loud  shout  was  set  up  by  the  mob  without,  — 
they  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bride. 

"Come,  Sidney,  this  way,"  he  said;  "I  must  not  detain  you 
long." 

Arm  in  arm  they  passed  out  of  the  church,  and  turned  to 
the  spot  hard  by,  where  the  flowers  smiled  up  to  them  from 
the  stone  on  their  mother's  grave. 

The  old  inscription  had  been  effaced,  and  the  name  of 
Catherine  Beaufort  was  placed  upon  the  stone. 

"Brother,"  said  Philip,  "do  not  forget  this  grave,  years 
hence,  when  children  play  around  your  own  hearth.  Observe, 
the  name  of  Catherine  Beaufort  is  fresher  on  the  stone  than 
the  dates  of  birth  and  death;  the  name  was  only  inscribed 
there  to-day,  —  your  wedding-day.  Brother,  by  this  grave  we 
are  now  indeed  united." 

"Oh,  Philip!"  cried  Sidney,  in  deep  emotion,  clasping  the 
hand  stretched  out  to  him,  "I  feel,  I  feel  how  noble,  how 
great  you  are  —  that  you  have  sacrificed  more  than  I  dreamed 
of  —  " 

"  Hush !  "  said  Philip,  with  a  smile.    "  No  talk  of  this.    I  am 
happier  than  you  deem  me.     Go  back  now,  — she  waits  you." 
"And  you?     Leave  you !  alone !  " 
"Not  alone,"  said  Philip,  pointing  to  the  grave. 
Scarce  had  he  spoken  when,  from  the  gate,  came  the  shrill, 
clear  voice  of  Lord  Lilburne,  — 

"We  wait  for  Mr.  Sidney  Beaufort." 


522  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

Sidney  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  wrung  the  hand  of 
his  brother  once  more,  and  in  a  moment  was  by  Camilla's 
side. 

Another  shout,  the  whirl  of  the  wheels,  the  trampling  of 
feet,  the  distant  hum  and  murmur,  — and  all  was  still. 

The  clerk  returned  to  lock  up  the  church  —  he  did  not 
observe  where  Philip  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  —  and 
went  home  to  talk  of  the  gay  wedding,  and  inquire  at  what 
hour  the  funeral  of  a  young  woman,  his  next-door  neighbour, 
would  take  place  the  next  day. 

It  might  be  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  Philip  was  thus  left 
—  nor  had  he  moved  from  the  spot  —  when  he  felt  his  sleeve 
pulled  gently.  He  turned  round  and  saw  before  him  the 
wistful  face  of  Fanny ! 

"  So  you  would  not  come  to  the  wedding?  "  said  he. 
"Xo.  But  I  fancied  you  might  be  here  alone,  — and  sad." 
"  And  you  will  not  even  wear  the  dress  I  gave  you?  " 
"Another  time.  Tell  me,  are  you  unhappy?" 
"Unhappy,  Fanny!  No;  look  around.  The  very  burial- 
ground  has  a  smile.  See  the  laburnums  clustering  over  the 
wall,  listen  to  the  birds  on  the  dark  yews  above,  and  yonder 
see  even  the  butterfly  has  settled  upon  her  grave!  I  am  not 
unhappy."  As  he  thus  spoke,  he  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and 
taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  drew  her  gently  towards  him, 
and  continued :  "  Fanny,  do  you  remember,  that,  leaning  over 
that  gate,  I  once  spoke  to  you  of  the  happiness  of  marriage 
where  two  hearts  are  united?  Nay,  Fanny,  nay,  I  must  go 
on.  It  was  here  in  this  spot,  it  was  here  that  I  first  saw  you 
on  my  return  to  England.  I  came  to  seek  the  dead,  and  I 
have  thought  since  it  was  my  mother's  guardian  spirit  that 
drew  me  hither  to  find  you,  — the  living!  And  often  after- 
wards, Fanny,  you  would  come  with  me  here,  when,  blinded 
and  dull  as  I  was,  I  came  to  brood  and  to  repine,  insensible  of 
the  treasures  even  then  perhaps  within  my  reach.  But  best 
as  it  was ;  the  ordeal  through  which  I  have  passed  has  made 
me  more  grateful  for  the  prize  I  now  dare  to  hope  for.  On 
this  grave  your  hand  daily  renewed  the  flowers.  By  this 
grave,  the  link  between  the  Time  and  the  Eternity,  whose 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  523 

lessons  we  have  read  together,  will  you  consent  to  record  our 
vows?  Fanny,  dearest,  fairest,  tenderest,  best,  I  love  you, 
and  at  last  as  alone  you  should  be  loved!  I  woo  you  as  my 
wife !  Mine,  not  for  a  season,  but  forever,  —  forever,  even 
when  these  graves  are  opened,  and  the  World  shrivels  like  a 
scroll.  Do  you  understand  me;  do  you  heed  me? —  Or  have 
I  dreamed  that  that  —  " 

He  stopped  short;  a  dismay  seized  him  at  her  silence.  Had 
he  been  mistaken  in  his  divine  belief?  The  fear  was  momen- 
tary; for  Fanny,  who  had  recoiled  as  he  spoke,  now  placing 
her  hands  to  her  temples,  gazing  on  him,  breathlessly  and 
with  lips  apart,  as  if,  indeed,  with  great  effort  and  struggle 
her  modest  spirit  conceived  the  possibility  of  the  happiness 
that  broke  upon  it,  advanced  timidly,  her  face  suffused  in 
blushes;  and  looking  into  his  eyes  as  if  she  would  read  into 
his  very  soul,  said,  with  an  accent  the  intenseness  of  which 
showed  that  her  whole  fate  hung  on  his  answer,  — 

"  But  this  is  pity !  They  have  told  you  that  I  —  In  short, 
you  are  generous  —  you  —  you —  Oh,  deceive  me  not!  Do 
you  love  her  still?  Can  you  —  do  you  love  the  humble,  fool- 
ish Fanny?" 

"As  God  shall  judge  me,  sweet  one,  I  am  sincere!  I  have 
survived  a  passion,  never  so  deep,  so  tender,  so  entire  as  that 
I  now  feel  for  you!  And,  oh,  Fanny,  hear  this  true  confes- 
sion. It  was  you  —  you  to  whom  my  heart  turned  before  I 
saw  Camilla!  Against  that  impulse  I  struggled  in  the  blind- 
ness of  a  haughty  error !  " 

Fanny  uttered  a  low  and  suppressed  cry  of  delight  and  rap- 
ture.    Philip  passionately  continued,  — 

"  Fanny,  make  blessed  the  life  j^ou  have  saved.  Fats  des- 
tined us  for  each  other;  fate  for  me  has  ripened  your  sweet 
mind;  fate  for  you  has  softened  this  rugged  heart.  We  may 
have  yet  much  to  bear  and  much  to  learn.  We  will  console 
and  teach  each  other !  " 

He  drew  her  to  his  breast  as  he  spoke,  —  drew  her  trem- 
bling, blushing,  confused,  but  no  more  reluctant;  and  there, 
by  the  Grave  that  had  been  so  memorable  a  scene  in  their 
common  history,  were  murmured  those  vows  in  which  all  this 


524  NIGHT  AXD  MORNING. 

world  knows  of  human  happiness  is  treasured  and  recorded, 
—  love  that  takes  the  sting  from  grief  and  faith  that  gives 
eternity  to  love.  All  silent,  yet  all  serene  around  them! 
Above,  the  heaven;  at  their  feet,  the  grave, — for  the  love, 
the  grave !  for  the  faith,  the  heaven ! 


CHAPTER   THE   LAST. 

A  LABORE  recliuat  otium.i  —  Horace. 

T  FEEL  that  there  is  some  justice  in  the  affection  the  general 
reader  entertains  for  the  old-fashioned  and  now  somewhat 
obsolete  custom  of  giving  to  him,  at  the  close  of  a  work,  the 
latest  news  of  those  who  sought  his  acquaintance  through  its 
progress. 

The  weak  but  well-meaning  Smith,  no  more  oppressed  by 
the  evil  influence  of  his  brother,  has  continued  to  pass  his 
days  in  comfort  and  respectability  on  the  income  settled  on 
him  by  Philip  Beaufort.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eoger  Morton  still 
live,  and  have  just  resigned  their  business  to  their  eldest  son, 
retiring  themselves  to  a  small  villa  adjoining  the  town  in 
which  they  had  made  their  fortune.  Mrs.  Morton  is  very 
apt,  when  she  goes  out  to  tea,  to  talk  of  her  dear  deceased 
sister-in-law,  the  late  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  of  her  own  remark- 
able kindness  to  her  nephew  when  a  little  boy.  She  observes 
that,  in  fact,  the  young  men  owe  everything  to  Mr.  Roger  and 
herself;  and,  indeed,  though  Sidney  was  never  of  a  grateful 
disposition,  and  has  not  been  near  her  since,  yet  the  elder 
brother,  the  Mr.  Beaufort,  always  evinces  his  respect  to  them 
by  the  yearly  present  of  a  fat  buck.  She  then  comments  on 
the  ups  and  downs  of  life;  and  observes  that  it  is  a  pity  her 
son  Tom  preferred  the  medical  profession  to  the  Church. 
Their  cousin,  Mr.  Beaufort,  has  two  livings.     To  all  this  Mr. 

1  "  Leisure  unbends  itself  from  labour." 


NIGHT   AND  MORNING.  525 

Roger  says  nothing,  except  an  occasional  "Thank  Heaven,  I 
want  no  man's  help!  I  am  as  well  to  do  as  my  neighbours. 
But  that 's  neither  here  nor  there." 

There  are  some  readers  —  they  Avho  do  not  thoroughly  con- 
sider the  truths  of  this  life  —  who  will  yet  ask,  "  But  how  is 
Lord  Lilburne  punished?"  Punished?  ay,  and  indeed,  how? 
The  world,  and  not  the  poet,  must  answer  that  question. 
Crime  is  punished  from  without.  If  Vice  is  punished,  it 
must  be  from  within.  The  Lilburnes  of  this  hollow  world 
are  not  to  be  pelted  with  the  soft  roses  of  poetical  justice. 
They  who  ask  why  he  is  not  punished  may  be  the  first  to  doff 
the  hat  to  the  equipage  in  which  my  lord  lolls  through  the 
streets !  The  only  offence  he  habitually  committed  of  a  nature 
to  bring  the  penalties  of  detection  he  renounced  the  moment 
he  perceived  there  was  danger  of  discovery!  he  gambled 
no  more  after  Philip's  hint.  He  was  one  of  those,  some 
years  after,  most  bitter  upon  a  certain  nobleman  charged  with 
unfair  play;  one  of  those  who  took  the  accusation  as  proved, 
and  whose  authority  settled  all  disputes  thereon. 

But  if  no  thunderbolt  falls  on  Lord  Lilburne's  head,  if  he 
is  fated  still  to  eat  and  drink,  and  to  die  on  his  bed,  he  may 
yet  taste  the  ashes  of  the  Dead  Sea  fruit  which  his  hands 
have  culled.  He  is  grown  old.  His  infirmities  increase  upon 
him ;  his  sole  resources  of  pleasure  —  the  senses  —  are  dried 
up.  For  him  there  is  no  longer  savour  in  the  viands,  or 
sparkle  in  the  wine;  man  delights  him  not,  nor  woman 
neither.     He  is  alone  with  Old  Age,  and  in  sight  of  Death. 

With  the  exception  of  Simon,  who  died  in  his  chair  not 
many  days  after  Sidney's  marriage,  Robert  Beaufort  is  the 
only  one  among  the  more  important  agents  left  at  the  last 
scene  of  this  history  who  has  passed  from  our  mortal  stage. 
After  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  he  for  some  time  moped 
and  drooped. 

But  Philip  learned  from  Mr.  Blackwell  of  the  will  that 
Robert  had  made  previously  to  the  lawsuit;  and  by  which, 
had  the  lawsuit  failed,  his  rights  would  yet  have  been  pre- 
served to  him.  Deeply  moved  by  a  generosity  he  could  not 
have  expected  from  his  uncle,  and  not  pausing  to  inquire  too 


526  NIGHT   AND  MORNING. 

closely  how  far  it  was  to  be  traced  to  the  influence  of  Arthur, 
Philip  so  warmly  expressed  his  gratitude,  and  so  surrounded 
Mr.  Beaufort  with  affectionate  attentions,  that  the  poor  man 
began  to  recover  his  self-respect;  began  even  to  regard  the 
nephew  he  had  so  long  dreaded  as  a  son,  — to  forgive  him  for 
not  marrying  Camilla.  And,  perhaps,  to  his  astonishment, 
an  act  in  his  life  for  which  the  customs  of  the  world  (that 
never  favour  natural  ties  not  previously  sanctioned  by  the 
legal)  would  have  rather  censured  than  praised,  became  his 
consolation,  and  the  memory  he  was  most  proud  to  recall. 
He  gradually  recovered  his  spirits ;  he  was  very  fond  of  look- 
ing over  that  will;  he  carefully  preserved  it;  he  even  flattered 
himself  that  it  was  necessary  to  preserve  Philip  from  all  pos- 
sible litigation  hereafter,  —  for  if  the  estates  were  not  legally 
Philip's,  why,  then,  they  were  his  to  dispose  of  as  he  pleased. 
He  was  never  more  happy  chan  when  his  successor  was  by  his 
side;  and  was  certainly  a  more  cheerful  and,  I  doubt  not,  a 
better  man  during  the  few  years  in  which  he  survived  the 
lawsuit  than  ever  he  had  been  before.  He  died  —  still  mem- 
ber for  the  county,  and  still  quoted  as  a  pattern  to  county 
members  —  in  Philip's  arms;  and  on  his  lips  there  was  a  smile 
that  even  Lilburne  would  have  called  sincere. 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  after  her  husband's  death,  established  her- 
self in  London,  and  could  never  be  persuaded  to  visit  Beaufort 
Court.  She  took  a  companion,  who  more  than  replaced  in  her 
eyes  the  absence  of  Camilla. 

And  Camilla,  Spencer,  Sidney?  They  live  still  by  the 
gentle  lake,  happy  in  their  own  serene  joys  and  graceful  leis- 
ure; shunning  alike  ambition  and  its  trials,  action  and  its 
sharp  vicissitudes;  envying  no  one,  covetous  of  nothing; 
making  around  them,  in  the  working  world,  something  of  the 
old  pastoral  and  golden  holiday.  If  Camilla  had  at  one  time 
wavered  in  her  allegiance  to  Sidney,  her  good  and  simple 
heart  has  long  since  been  entirely  regained  by  his  devotion; 
and  as  might  be  expected  from  her  disposition,  she  loved  him 
better  after  marriage  than  before. 

Philip  had  gone  through  severer  trials  than  Sidney.  But, 
had  their  earlier  fates  been  reversed,  and  that  spirit,  in  youth 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING.  527 

so  haughty  and  self-willed,  been  lapped  in  ease  and  luxury, 
would  Philip  now  be  a  better  or  a  happier  man?  Perhaps, 
too,  for  a  less  tranquil  existence  than  his  brother  Philip  yet 
may  be  reserved;  but  in  proportion  to  the  uses  of  our  destiny, 
do  we  repose  or  toil :  he  who  never  knows  pain  knows  but 
the  half  of  pleasure.  The  lot  of  whatever  is  most  noble  on 
the  earth  below  falls  not  amidst  the  rosy  Gardens  of  the 
Epicurean.  We  may  envy  the  man  who  enjoys  and  rests; 
but  the  smile  of  Heaven  settles  rather  on  the  front  of  him 
who  labours  and  aspires. 

And  did  Philip  ever  regret  the  circumstances  that  had 
given  him  Fanny  for  the  partner  of  his  life?  To  some  who 
take  their  notions  of  the  Ideal  from  the  conventional  rules 
of  romance  rather  than  from  their  own  perceptions  of  what  is 
true,  this  narrative  would  have  been  more  pleasing  had  Philip 
never  loved  but  Fanny.  But  all  that  had  led  to  that  love  had 
only  served  to  render  it  more  enduring  and  concentred.  Man's 
strongest  and  worthiest  affection  is  his  last;  is  the  one  that 
unites  and  embodies  all  his  past  dreams  of  what  is  excellent ; 
the  one  from  which  Hope  springs  out  the  brighter  from 
former  disappointments ;  the  one  in  which  the  Memories  arc 
the  most  tender  and  the  most  abundant;  the  one  which, 
replacing  all  others,   nothing  hereafter  can  replace. 

And  now,  ere  the  scene  closes,  and  the  audience,  whom 
perhaps  the  actors  may  have  interested  for  a  while,  disperse, 
to  forget  amidst  the  pursuits  of  actual  life  the  Shadows  that 
have  amused  an  hour,  or  beguiled  a  care,  let  the  curtain  fall 
on  one  happy  picture. 

It  is  some  years  after  the  marriage  of  Philip  and  Fanny. 
It  is  a  summer  morning.  In  a  small  old-fashioned  room  at 
Beaufort  Court,  with  its  casements  open  to  the  gardens,  stood 
Philip,  having  just  entered;  and  near  the  window  sat  Fanny, 
his  boy  by  her  side.  She  was  at  the  mother's  hardest  task, 
—  the  first  lessons  to  the  first-born  child;  and  as  the  boy 
looked  up  at  her  sweet  earnest  face  with  a  smile  of  intelli- 
gence on  his  own,  you  might  have  seen  at  a  glance  how  well 
understood  were  the  teacher  and  the  pupil.     Yes;  whatever 


528  NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

might  have  been  wanting  in  the  Virgin  to  the  full  develop- 
ment of  mind,  the  cares  of  the  Mother  had  supplied.  When 
a  being  was  born  to  lean  on  her  alone,  dependent  on  her  prov- 
idence for  life,  then  hour  after  hour,  step  after  step,  in  the 
progress  of  infant  destinies,  had  the  reason  of  the  mother 
grown  in  the  child's  growth,  adapting  itself  to  each  want 
that  it  must  foresee,  and  taking  its  perfectness  and  completion 
from  the  breath  of  the  New  Love ! 

The  child  caught  sight  of  Philip  and  rushed  to  embrace 
him. 

"  See !  "  whispered  Fanny,  as  she  also  hung  upon  him,  and 
strange  recollections  of  her  own  mysterious  childhood  crowded 
upon  her, —  "see,"  w^hispered  she,  with  a  blush  half  of  shame 
and  half  of  pride,  "  the  poor  idiot  girl  is  the  teacher  of  your 
child!" 

"And,"  answered  Philip,  "whether  for  child  or  mother, 
what  teacher  is  like  Love?" 

Thus  saying,  he  took  the  boy  into  his  arms ;  and  as  he  bent 
over  those  rosy  cheeks,  Fanny  saw,  from  the  movement  of  his 
lips  and  the  moisture  in  his  eyes,  that  he  blessed  God.  He 
looked  up  on  the  mother's  face,  he  glanced  round  on  the  flow- 
ers and  foliage  of  the  luxurious  summer,  and  again  he  blessed 
God.     And  without  and  within,  it  was  Light  and  Morxixg! 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 


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LD  21A-50wi-9,'58 
(6889sl0)476B 


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